


Hearken to the Night

by ZoeLinkingal



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Barduil Night's Watch AU, Drama, M/M, Map and locations are altered to fit plot, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeLinkingal/pseuds/ZoeLinkingal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard Girion of the Kingsguard is assigned to the Night's Watch by King Joffrey's command. He makes the youngest First Ranger and now ten years later, he embarks on a long overdue journey very north of the Wall, where tales of magical beings and dragonslayer kings run true.</p><p>On the other side, a band of direwolves assault the Wall, led by the bastard of Winterfell.</p><p>Chapter 11: Oropher is confronted with his decisions. Some Elves are labelled traitors. Will Bard leave for the south or stay with Thranduil?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Encounters

[Accompanying map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/111463604092/updated-map-for-barduil-nights-watch-au-inspired)

 

‘ _Where..._ ’ he saw nothing but white flakes, some smudged foot prints beside him and his outstretched hand. _‘What..._ ’ he tried to speak but his throat closed and would not budge. His vision is blurry and stained with a sort of fading light. He knows that he is laying on snow as the cold bit him through his thick black coat. How long has he laid here such that the frost could get through the material? Must have been long, he thinks. He needs to get up…. He needs to get his message back to his company…. _Are the direwolves gone…_?

He closes his eyes as his memory brings him back to the hour before he fell. As he did so, he felt a trickle of blood roll down the left side of his face....

 

_It had been one of the few rare times when the Night’s Watch Lord Commander ordered a scout report from beyond their routine boundary. It was long overdue and could not be avoided lest the King himself came, to the dismay of the Lord Commander. He did not want to endanger his troops anymore than they already were but the Iron Throne had been pressing for reassurance since two months ago. Two months! Lord Oakenshield was impressed with King Joffrey’s patience but the Lord Commander did not want to delay any further. Well, in truth, he did want to delay for another week or so but the King, at the end of the two month delay, had sent them additional supplies of metal, coal and wolfsbane, a not so subtle hint to get a move on. He had felt slightly embarassed when the goods arrive at the Wall._

_Thus, he assembled his finest unit of twenty-five rangers, led by the youngest lad who ever made First Ranger, Bard Girion. Youngest only because the men who were sent to the Wall were mostly older._

_Bard had been briefed extremely thoroughly on the dangers of the assignment, with additional advice; Stay close to the river that runs northwards towards the Fist. Stay away from the strait that came from Dire Landing. Numbers or sightings, nothing more. Do not travel alone._

_The last advice, he did not heed._

_He and his company did try to stay away from Dire Landing, they had even travelled on the left side of the river! But the howls of the direwolves were near, so Bard had stayed his rangers and crossed over the river, promising the group that he would return soon. It was just a quick scout after all and they needed the rest._

_How could he had known? How could he had known that a pack of dozen direwolves, led by the bastard of Winterfell, would travel around the Fist and ambush his company? When Bard, quick and light on foot, had saw the trails and where they led, he had an idea. But he did not stop to turn back. Just a few more steps, he thought. A few more steps and he could gauge what they were dealing with! He owed his tired company that much._

_Then, faint cries and metal rang from behind him. He rushed back to the river as quickly as he could._

_But he hid and did not cross the river. The sun had set, light was fading but there was no mistake. His company was being raided by the direwolves. Bard hid behind the banks of the river, a hand on his mouth as he watched the commotion unfold._

_His men had been taken by surprise. They had stopped to rest and were grateful for it. They unchained their belts and laid their sword aside them, completely trusting their environment - They were very far from the strait of Dire Landing afterall. Some started a fire but not before long, they heard a battle cry from the north. The direwolves rushed at them, trampling over those who were napping. Shouts ensued to arm for battle. Twenty-five of them against twelve direwolves twice their size? And their riders? A lost cause._

_It was a quick decision, really._

_To make for the Castle and leave their First Ranger - and whoever had fallen - behind, wherever he may be._

_Bard saw all. Many times his feet would bring him out from behind the river bank but his courage faltered and stayed him. Castle Black could defend itself against twelve riders, for sure. But, Bard could not follow his company back. What if there were more behind them? They would kill Bard in a flash, indeed._

_Still, he needed to get the message to the Castle before the riders reached the wall. Under the cover of night, the direwolves would have the upper hand. Twelve or five no matter, the riders were adequately armed, their kin surely behind them. On that last note, Bard should get away as soon as possible._

_As the riders chased his company south to the wall, Bard wiped away his tears and manned himself up. He shook his head. There was going to be casualty no matter what, why should he add to their numbers? The Starks had grown bolder to travel so far west from Dire Landing, surely the twelve were not all they had sent out._

_So Bard had emerged from the river bank, contemplating if he should follow behind at a slow pace or go further north, rest at the Fist until first light. The noon had turned to evening, the sun was setting behind the Gale Mountains._

_He remembered what the Lord Commander told him before he ventured out. “If you can’t come back, don’t. Live!” Was he craven to run away? Maybe. Did he fear death? Yes! It was better still, to fight another day, Bard decided. He was from the Kingsguard and now a brother of the Night's Watch. His oaths came back to him in parts._

 

 

 

 

> _I commit myself to the protection of the King_
> 
> _and all whom he commands..._
> 
> _I hereby swear that I will obey his words..._
> 
> _.._
> 
> _...I am the shield that guards the realms of men._
> 
> _I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch,_
> 
> _for this night and all the nights to come..._

 

_Those were his oaths and he kept both of them since. He still has a realm and a king to protect and obey. He must live._

_With a sigh, he grabbed the hilt of his sword, pulled up his thick hood and hiked through the snow. North he went, the dread and the few fallen behind him. The wall, behind him._

_There was a rustle in the dense forest of Tenerywood northwest of the Fist. Stories tell of enchanted woods beyond the Wall and the Spiritfolk, otherworldly and dangerous, who dwelled in them, with a dragonslayer for a king. Bard hoped to the heavens and the earth that they were asleep so that he too could rest his own weary eyes. He had enough dangers for one evening._

_Then, an arrow came flying._

_It was hard to make out who or from whence it came. Bard only knew it had to be from the forest for his attacker was no where on the plain snow._

_The sun had fully set now. There was no dodging it._

_When the arrow struck the right side of his chest and entered his lungs, he had felt puzzled. What arrow was this that it could pierce through the chainmail under his fur coat? Bard tried to move his right arm to pull the arrow out but he could not. He felt strangely dizzy and his legs gave way, he knocked himself on the head as he fell. A sound so loud he feared he had cracked part of his skull. The crack echoed in his mind and out, the direwolves would have no problem finding their dinner now._

 

Bard opened his eyes, trying to stay conscious if only to look upon his assailant. The arrow was laced with a paralytic substance, Bard could feel it seeping into his lungs, polluting his blood stream. Well, at least his death would not be a painful one. Maybe the direwolves liked their food motionless? Or were the riders not giving him a chance to escape? Well, he wished they would make his death quick. Where are they? Are they toying with him? Laughing behind the shadow of the forest? Damn them to hell!

The dose was beginning to come into full effect as his sight swarmed with blurred images and his surroundings swirled.

“Shoot!” an unknown voice came from the forest.

Bard heard rushed foot steps but he felt no malice from the folk. Maybe it was the dose toying with his mind.

“Is he dead?!” another voice asked, this time nearer. _‘No, I’m not!_ ’ Bard wanted to say, but he could not and he lay there on the snow with drowsy eyes, hoping that these people would save him or at least put him out of this humiliation.

“This is no direwolf!” Of course he isn't! He is a man! _Who are these dumb people?!_

The more Bard wanted to shout, the more he felt powerless. Soon, the white cascade turned into pitch black darkness.

 

-

 

“What are we to do with him?” Tauriel asked, frustrated and worried. A rookie, barely hundred years of age, had mistaken the strange movement for a resting direwolf and shot an arrow. It was supposed to be a warning shot, he said. Tauriel was not sure to praise him for his accuracy or hit him for his lapse in judgement. The malice of Winterfell had afflicted the younglings more so than the matured ones and Tauriel found in her heart to forgive his folly. Now, the elfling was weeping, surrounded by two matured elfwarriors.

Legolas emerged from the forest, sheathing his bow behind his back. He jogged towards Tauriel who was standing over the unconscious mortal. He bit his bottom lip, they must leave him here and go back to his father. There was no way the Elvenking would allow an outsider to cross his borders!

“My Lord?” Tauriel inquired with raised eyebrows.

“We… cannot take him back.”

“What?!” Tauriel snapped. “It is by our hands that he has fainted! How can we just leave him here untreated? Do you forget that the _gaurwaith_ are out this night?!”

Legolas watched Tauriel’s fury with stern eyes, considering his options. Risk the wrath of his father or risk the life of one man? “What if he is being tracked and followed? Will we not be leading the beasts and their riders back to the keep? _Which my father moved further north to avoid the gaurwaith, excuse you._ ” Legolas emphasized.

“ **We can take them!** ” Tauriel stomped her feet and got angrier each second for she knew any delay would shorten the chances of the man living. “Have we not kept our borders and our keep safe and outlasted our brethren in the east across the Deep?”

Legolas winced internally at the mention of Ulmo’s Deep but he was also charmed by the furor of the much younger Silvan elf.

Ulmo’s Deep was a sea that lay far in the east that separated them from their fallen and sundered Noldorin kin in Rivendell. The accursed land of Winterfell laid further east of Rivendell as well. A wave of sorrow hit Legolas and his decision may have been swayed by it. He took pity on the mortal and looked far and away beyond the Fist, which had been their home once. “We will take him back.” Legolas raised a balled hand, signalling the unit of eleven, including Tauriel, to gather around. “Sheath your bows and carry him.” He gestured to two mature elfarchers, they nodded and acted. “The two of you will march in front of the mortal, and the three of you will march behind us.” He gestured to five other elfwarriors and they nodded, taking their place immediately. “The captain and I will stay beside the mortal. The rest of you take to the trees and keep a keen eye!”

“Yes, my Lord!” came the replies and three elfarchers, including the elfling, ran into the forest and up the trees, awaiting the company to follow.

“We must make haste for the keep.” Legolas said and looked southwards once again, his eyes shifted left to right slowly, as if spanning the Wall leagues away . “I fear blood elsewhere has been shed. The winds are mourning.”

As fate would have it, the First Ranger went further north into the Land of the Spiritfolk.

 

 

* * *

 _Gaurwaith_ (sindarin) – Wolf men, referring to the direwolves and their riders.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The map (at the top) may be updated and edited as I go along with this story. The plot is fresh in my mind and I can sorta see where and how the story will end. I would appreciate any feedback and thank you for reading!
> 
> P.S. Thranduil appears next chapter, may be not in name as he has to keep his secrets secret...


	2. Remedies and Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king himself attends to Bard.

[Accompanying map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/111739898692/edited-map-my-barduil-nights-watch-au-the) (updated!)

 

In a land away from the howling blizzards of the Gale Mountains, between two robust rivers, lay the keep of the Elvenking. His borders kept safe by an enchantment that shall any pass without his allowance, will fall into a deep and terrifying slumber.

The elves who preceded Legolas entered the barrier with ease as they came out of Tenerywood, bringing the swift and silent word of Legolas’ return to the Elvenking. His tent far away from the borders but Legolas could see it. A bright orange canvas hut, guarded by two, with many smaller beige huts flanking both sides and beyond. It looked more like a prosperous village than anything. Before the Elvenking’s tent was a large circular clearing, mainly used for gatherings or parties, though they had not have one since they moved further north from the Fist.

Outside their tents, there were elflings building snowmen and snow forts, some adults and their siblings roasting rabbits and scaling salmons. They were dressed in robes and thin cloaks, nothing too thick yet they were not bothered by the permafrost. The aroma of the foods flowed towards but stopped short of the barrier, so that none outside would know of it.

As Legolas entered the barrier, the Elvenking’s head perked up from his oak desk in his tent, his silverblonde hair swaying forward, unbound by the crown sitting on the desk. He smiled but quickly frowned when an unknown body of substance entered along with his scouting unit. A direwolf perhaps? It felt big…. _‘Still alive and warm._ ’ His smile returned again at the thought. He put his feathered quill pen down, stood up elegantly and patted his fitted black kaftan that reached halfway over his knees. He walked excitedly to the other end of his tent and put on his knee-high boots.

The Elvenking, a wide grin plastered on his face still, pushed open the flaps of his tent rather dramatically, startling the two guards that stood a few feet in front. He walked out of his tent with two huge strides, eyes twinkling as he extended his arms wide and bellowed. “Legolas! You have returned!”

Legolas and company bowed swiftly, the Elvenprince giving his father a hesitant smile, “Indeed I have, father.” all too used to the display of his king.

The commotion around the clearing silenced themselves. Elflings stopped running, some tripped over their snow forts and roasts stopped turning. The Elvenking attributed it to their surprise at how quick the Prince had returned. He looked to Legolas’ side, two elfarchers carrying a black furry body of sorts. It looked heavy and the Elvenking licked his lips. “Mm! It seems your swift return has brought with it something delectable!”

Legolas cleared his throat awkwardly, his father obviously not noticing the tension settling in among the elvenkind. Before the Elvenking could step closer to the unconscious body, Legolas stepped in front of his father, stopping him in his tracks. _By now, the Elvenking should notice something was off!_

But, he did not or clearly did not admit it.

“Ah, your reports can wait!” The Elvenking tried to shoo his son’s rigid body away. “Come, we must prepare, clean and skin the meat!” At that, the company felt dread and moved instinctively away from their approaching king. Even Tauriel gasped and stood away from the mortal. She sympathized with the two elfarchers, who were shivering slightly while carrying the weight.

The Elvenking pushed Legolas away with such intense strength that it made Legolas stumble a few steps to the right, such was a measurement of the king’s excitement.

The company did nothing stop the king’s advancement but Legolas did, rudely, grab at his father’s shoulders, preventing him from touching the mortal, least a hidden knife ready to kill. Though the Elvenking’s sword was no where in sight, his father was surely armed.

“Hm?” The Elvenking murmured, surprised at the audacity of his son. He looked back, waiting. His brows lifted high and a casual smile plastered on his countenance, expecting a pleasant answer.

“That is…” Legolas let go of his father and gestured to the body. “That is not our meal, father. Unfortunately.”

The Elvenking tilted his head in question, slightly pouting, his smile gone. He looked back to the elfarchers for confirmation and indeed, they shook their heads vehemently in distress.

“Oh. Well, what is it, then might I ask?” He gestured for the two to put the weight down carefully and they did.

As they stepped aside, the Elvenking beheld the unconscious man. An arrow stuck on the right side of his chest, revealing something shiny. Ah, chain mail. The mortal, though dressed fully in black, looked pleasantly appealing. Black fur boots and thick breeches, fur coat and a cloak behind that laid splayed on the snow. The Elvenking knelt down on one knee to the surprise of everyone. His fine and slender hand reached and pulled back the raven hood that revealed a young but mature human face with a gash on the left side of his forehead. His hair curly and disheveled but not yet messy nor was it covered with mud. His face spotting a shadow of fine hair. _‘Too young to be traveling alone in the snow.’_

The Elvenking stood up, signaling for the elfarchers to pick the mortal up again. “It is unfortunate indeed.” He said and Legolas was not sure he meant the injuries or the missed meal. “He comes from the Wall.... Take him and lay him in my tent, I will attend to him shortly.”

That did not surprise anyone (but Legolas raised an eyebrow at how casual his father was of the situation). The substance coursing through Bard’s veins were made for something thrice stronger than he, the arrowhead was also not meant to pierce any human, only the thick hide of direwolves. It was made of obsidian after all.

The Elvenking was the best healer the Sindarin and Silvan elves had, if they had any at all. He had learned the arts and excelled at it while he was in Rivendell across the sea some three thousand years ago, though his specialty lies in defensive spells. The memory that came after was not a good one and the atmosphere in the keep fell slightly. This, he did notice for sure, or at least made the effort to admit he noticed.

He waved a hand, as though he could wave away the memory of his sundered kin, far away and unreachable now. He felt sad, yes, but he was king and held his composure. “Resume your activities, all of you. The day has not changed nor is it any duller!” He turned to Legolas, “I shall speak to the archer who stuck the arrow in him when the sun rises.” Beside Tauriel, the only elfling of the unit visibly cringed and looked down, tears threatening to fall again

 

-

 

The Elvenking dismissed his guards and entered the tent. He walked to the left side and took off his boots for he much liked the feel of something soft beneath his feet. If he could look like a king and walk barefooted in the snow outside his tent, he would! Alas, he settled to walk barefooted upon the carpeted floor of his private pavilion.

He had a desk of oak, layered with a white perlite top. Beside his table laid a large and spacious bed. The pillow had been moved nearer to the side of his desk, a human now laid upon that pillow. Something caught his eye on the right side of his tent, beside his wardrobe. A strange sword and it’s belt sat beside his own on the low antler sword mount. It must belong to the mortal, he presumed.

The Elvenking sighed and nodded to himself.

First, he ordered for a basin of fresh water and a cloth in a loud and deep voice. Then, he proceeded to remove the Bard’s cloak. He took the hidden obsidian dagger from his own leggings and cut the chain mail and cloth around the arrow carefully. He ordered the material to be burned.

Now, the human laid half-naked, save the arrow, and very much unconscious.

Thranduil pulled his wooden chair from his desk to the side of the bed, which was just a few inches away. He laid one hand on the sleeping mortal's muscular abs and another floated atop the gash on Bard’s forehead. He focused his inner thoughts and directed much of the blood flow towards the mortal’s head, hastening the closure of the wound. When the wound closed, he chanted a small incantation and healed the scar and damage.

He eyed the arrow with distaste. He would have to get his hands dirty now. Though he would not like that, he took the arrow out swiftly. Using the same method and incantation, the wound closed and the scar healed.

Tauriel asked for permission to enter and it was granted. She eyed the flawless and naked chest of the mortal and could not help but smile. She sat the basin of water and clean cloth on the desk and excused herself and the arrow from the king’s bloodied hands.

He stood and moved a low table from the foot of the bed to his side and sat the basin and cloth on it. He infused the water with a healing spell and warmed it up. He cleaned his hands of the blood in the basin, the redness in the water was quickly swallowed up and the water remained clear. Before he got to clean the human's body, he proceeded to remove the dirty boots that stained his bed sheets. He had half a mind to burn these as well but he thought better. The human may not like to walk barefooted as he did, after all. He set the black fur boots beside his own before he walked back to unbuckle the breeches.

He removed the pants and undergarments with little effort, ordering for those to be burned as well.

When he walked back into the tent and to the bed, he could not help himself but glimpse at the well endowed limp member that was resting between Bard’s muscular thighs. He swallowed absentmindedly and tried not to stare. This mortal was different to the ones he had seen before. Taller, much less hairy and stronger. Well, the last time he had seen a human was some thousand years ago. He was baffled, still, on why the Wall would send a youngling so far out on his own. At that thought, a small but growing protective anger rose inside the Elvenking. “Men are disgusting.” he whispered to no one. He walked closer to the bed and caressed Bard’s face gently. “But not you. Nothing that happened was your fault.” he mentioned softly but Bard did not hear.

With the body now defenseless and uncloaked, the Elvenking could almost make out the soft and sad song from it, of the blood and sweat spilled for ungrateful kings of men.

The Elvenking started to clean Bard's hair and body with the cloth and enchanted water. He was pleased with his work and proceeded to don Bard in a pair of soft olive green velvet pants.

He sat down on the chair and leaned forward to the sleeping form. Bard looked at peace, his body now at ease without the weight of injury pulling at it so the Elvenking did not remove the substance that made Bard this way. It was because Bard looked like he needed the sleep, he told himself while tracing Bard’s abs with his fingers, enjoying the private warmth this human body provided.

Well, he needs to finish writing, really. Spell books do not write themselves. The Elvenking pulled his chair back to his desk and wield his feather quill pen. Before resuming his prose, he glanced at the sleeping form and smiled. It has been a long time since someone other than himself was on that bed.

Still, there was a sinking feeling in his gut. How much would Thranduil allow this stranger from the Wall to know about his world?

 

-

 

The moon hung high and lofty in the charcoal sky as Thranduil exited from his tent. He acknowledged the two new guards as they bowed respectfully. He dismissed them from their duty and they thanked him.

There were no smells of roast or squealing laughter from elflings now, only the burnt remains of stone and wood. There was light and small fires coming from the fenced boarder of the keep, just outside of Tenerywood, a pleasant sight it was to see his elves being vigilant at all times. The light stretched from where the White River and Enduring Stream meet all the way past west of Tenerywood, across a stream.

Thranduil turned right and walked behind his tent, passing his neighbors and the apothecary on his left. He then came to a stop at the Enduring Stream. There was a bridge of carven oak and stone across the water, four guards manned it, two at the head and two on the other side. A white tent over a stone house was isolated on the other side of the river.

Coming here intimidated Thranduil at times for the dragon slayer disliked his visits but Thranduil knew he would never be turned away nor be shouted at. Chided at times, maybe, for wasting his effort trying to get his father back into his people. And for walking about at night when the malice was strongest.

He regarded the elf guards as they nodded and made way for him to cross the bridge.

Aside from the door opening and shutting, Thranduil did not so much as make a sound or a greeting as he came into the cold hut. It was cold because it was deprived of any conjured heat and that was how Oropher liked it. Ever since he recovered from the War and moved northwards with Thranduil, he had this house commissioned, away from his people in solitude.

In the house were some hanging lights and a bed that looked much unused laying in the far corner on the left. The front main part was adorned with bows, arrow shafts and fishing rods, mounted on the walls. There was a large stone table where Oropher stood and was working on some pieces of wood. He looked up to his son standing at the door. His eyes were gray and seemed to have lost their light. He was a shadow of who he once was. It seemed that when Ancalagon fell into the sea, a large part of Oropher fell with it. Oropher continued working wordlessly.

Once a dragon slayer and now, a solitary father of a king, he paid no mind to the affairs of his realm or anything beyond the river.

Thranduil walked slowly and looked upon the work that his father was doing, his long and curly golden hair neat and tidy which was a feat in itself. Some wooden pieces were curved, “A new bow, father?”

“How observant.” Oropher said, without so much as looking up.

Thranduil smirked and picked up an angular piece of bent wood about five inches wide, Thranduil could see the intricate carvings on it, the vines winding around and coming to a rest in the shape of a heart. “You should rest, father.” he mused.

The sound of chisel on stone made Thranduil put down the piece as his father freed his hands to put them on his hips and looked at his son sternly. “As should you.”

This was common occurrence. Thranduil would make his best effort to come here at least twice a week, usually in the dead of night. Thrice if his work and kinging allowed him. Then, his father would make his own best effort to inch Thranduil away. But Oropher never out rightly shoved his son out of his home. He could if he wanted to, Thranduil knows how strong and powerful Oropher still is. But the fact that the elder did not, made Thranduil all the more braver to withstand his father's attacks. Yes, Thranduil counted them as attacks on his heart. His father was inaccessible as it is, in this house away from the populace. Thranduil just wanted to remember he has a parent even though that parent doesn't seem to like his presence all that much.

They stared at each other for a long time. It was always at this moment that Thranduil did not know what to do. He could not get through the stone barrier that his father had set up around his heart. He tried to, for thousands of years, and never did succeed.

The gaze of his father pierced his soul as he looked away, feeling oppressed as a king would oppress his subjects. “I needed to make sure you were alright.” This was also the moment when....

“And I assure you that I quite am.” Oropher nodded, expectant.

...Thranduil would take his leave.

But this night, he at least had some fresh news for his father that he thought would give him the liberty to stay, if only for ten more minutes. It was ten more minutes than last week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> I was going to completely stop after Thranduil has taken care of Bard (so introducing Oropher later) but than it would have been a boring chapter.
> 
> We don't get a lot of info about Oropher. But we do know that he was sort of an isolationist and that he disregarded Noldor authority (so, a little hot headed with a temper to match it?), so that's what I want to portray him as. Hopefully, he will melt when Bard is formally introduced ;)
> 
> I also made a timeline. Well, it was *supposed* to be a timeline to help me keep track of the history-dropping in the story but I just could not stop writing and now I have a full fledged War of Feanor written out. I do not know which chapter would it be in but I am quite excited to give you guys the whole history, in order to understand who Oropher was and how the Wall came to be and stuff. It's basically history with war and fighting :).
> 
> Please do leave your comments and feedback. Thank you!


	3. Haste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard wakes up and not before long, he experiences Thranduil's legendary anger and then something happens that catches him off guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O Won't you look at that! 8888 words now! Lucky number for Lunar New Year :D

[Accompanying Map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/tagged/Barduil-NW)

 

Headaches, a sore body and a hoarse throat was what Bard woke up to. And, a shimmer of bright flowing light... No. That's someone's hair. Bard tried to cough to get the lady's attention but the hollow passage of his dry throat made no sound. Bard tried to swallow only for the sore pain to stop his action. _'Dammit.._ ' he cursed in his mind.

Bard eyed the being with the long silverblonde hair. She was seated and the left half of her face was obscured from Bard's view. Bard squinted as he was slightly confused. The form of the being was akin to that of a man, or a flat-chested woman. Bard decided it was a man. How would a woman allow Bard in her bed? He had blue eyes and a fair face, his long hair was straight and bright, as if the sun itself had blessed it. It swayed as the being busied himself, presumably writing and it would cover the right half of his face at times. Bard smiled, though with great effort, that he was cared for by such a studious and beautiful being. Bard wonders how could anyone maintain such good looks and hair in the treacherous north.

Maybe, he was not in the north anymore? Bard could feel the warmth of the tent comfortably resting on his skin. He was half-naked but he felt no chill of an open wound nor a wetness that resembled blood. How long has he been laying here such that his wounds had completely healed? He doesn't know. His toes wriggled and he could feel a sort of velvet material against his legs.... lacking in the undergarment.

Bard eyed the pavilion. Though he could not move much of his neck as his body was still sore and stiff from coming out of the paralytic substance, he could see that it was a light orange canvas tent, sizable and spacious, humbly decorated but not lacking in the essentials. He stared hard at his right, hoping that if he burned his gaze into the blonde hair, his intentions would reach the man.

However, it did not. The man seemed very much into whatever he was writing.

It would be rude, but Bard had no choice but to slowly and painstakingly lift his right hand and tug at the silverblonde hair tenderly. He did not want to hurt anyone but he desperately needed water.

“Hmph?” The man... oh, wait, are those pointed ears?!

Bard froze, his fingers still on the shimmering hair. His wide eyes were met with gentle gray orbs. And a wide smile. “You have come to!” An excitedly deep voice spoke.

Bard's not sure how to react. This man.... no, this being was _not human_! Bard composes himself as best as he could, deciding that water was way more important than the identity of this blonde creature. He opened his lips and mouthed 'water', desperately hoping that the creature understood him.

“Ah, yes, yes.” The creature's long and pale fingers sent electric shocks into Bard's hands as they removed his fingers from the hair. From Bard's point of view, he could see him stretch across his table and then, a goblet of water was in his hands.

He helped Bard sit up and pushed the goblet to Bard's mouth, not as gingery as Bard hoped but this creature probably had inhuman strength.

When the liquid flowed down Bard's throat, he sighed in relief. However, that gladness did not last long as thoughts of the Wall being under attack came back into the palace of his mind.

“I..” Bard started but coughed before he could continue. “I thank you... Brethren, for your hospitality and care. I need to go now.” Bard tried to lean forward but there was a sudden pang in his gut that made him cursed.

The creature's hand immediately went forward to his abdomen, chanted a spell in a language that Bard did not understand. The pain in his gut quickly subsided. “The substance is just now passing out of your system. You need rest.” he said with haste and a thousand worries.

“Who are you?” Bard blurted before he could stop himself. Inside him, his curiosity and honor clashed with each other. He needs to go back to the Wall but this situation was much too intriguing.

The being blinked twice too rapidly and Bard decided that he really was not human. Could he be one of the Spiritfolk in the north? The atmosphere was not cold enough to be the north anymore and Bard was confused and clueless.

“If I told you, I would have to kill you.” the reply came, painfully honest and candid.

Bard could tell it was not a joke. He swallowed. “Where am I, then?”

The being eyed him in a way that told Bard he was contemplating.

“You would have to kill me for that as well?” Bard tried, feeling uncomfortable at the apparent threat and his disadvantage, what with being almost naked and his sword sitting far away from him. He was sure this entity could rip him to shreds in a matter of seconds. He could feel the power radiating from those gray eyes, as if they descended from something far more ancient. They probably did.

The blonde male considered his reply for awhile. He looked down and his eyes shifted rapidly. “You are... still north of the Wall from whence you came.”

Bard felt relief that he was not far but he could scarcely believe he was still in the cold for the tent had warmth that was impossible in the north. If the being had told him he was in King's Landing now, Bard would have believed.

“You do not believe me.” The male said, as if he could read Bard's thoughts. _'Shit._ ' Bard thought, what if he really could?! The blonde made a movement with his lips that told Bard he was considering sharing a tid bit of information. “What do you know about the land beyond the Wall?”

Bard was glad that the blonde was willing to test his knowledge to gauge how much he could share. The ranger did not hesitate. “Nothing more than stories and myths and a little history lesson from the south.” Bard took another sip of the goblet. “Tales of magical beings and dragonslayers. Dangerous spiritfolks and of course, the Starks of Winterfell who infiltrated the land beyond the Wall three thousand years ago.”

The blonde chuckled and Bard found himself unusually attracted to the sound. “Spiritfolk? Is that what they call us now?”

“No, no!” Bard defended quickly. “It's just how the brothers of the Night's Watch see the Elves. A species that died long ago but we all know they were immortal and thought that their spirit would live on in the north. Hence, Spiritfolk.” Bard squinted slightly, “So, you're an elf, am I right?”

“Yes, that you are.”

“I am Bard. Bard Girion, of the Kingsguard and the Night's Watch by my king's command.” Bard proclaimed and extended a free hand to the elf.

He looked at Bard's hand, as if scrutinizing it. He tilted his head, as he did not know the tradition of shaking hands. Finally, after an embarrassing wait, the elf took his hand. Though, with the wrong one. Instead of shaking with the opposite hand, the elf merely grabbed at the back of Bard's hand rather firmly, with his fingers coming to a rest at Bard's palm. Bard decided that this elf does not know much of human culture.

“I knew Lord Girion.” The elf mentioned with a bright sparkle in his eyes and Bard was amazed at how bright the room suddenly became with it. “How is the city of Dale?” his hand still not letting go and it made Bard slightly embarrassed.

At the mention of Dale, Bard frowned. He's not entirely sure if the elf was joking or mocking him. “Dale was smothered one thousand years ago, elf.”

The elf seemed genuinely surprised and then sad. The room, of course, significantly darkened. “I... I must apologize for I have not left the cold lands since the war.”

There was only one great and terrible war that was fought in these lands and it did not take long for Bard to figure out which one he was talking about. “The War of Feanor? But that was some three thousand years ago! Maybe more!” It was an epic tragedy that broke the eastern lands and divided the seven sons of Feanor, the last King of the Noldor. A war that included the abduction of elves, breeding of direwolves and dragons that could hold a mountain in their palms. It was the war that spurred the building of the Wall by King Daeron II Targaryen, stylized Daeron the Good, in hopes to defend the realm from his traitors around the same time that Maedhros guarded the north to the east, paying with his and his family's life.

The war was considered won and the Iron Throne defended. But remnants of the Starks who either crossed the Deep into the land beyond the Wall (by sacking the Elvendom of Rivendell) or escape to the south before Feanor could sunder the earth, were still a threat to the realm.

“Yes, a terrible war that was. It is no surprise that your history taught our kind dead, my people do not cross my borders unnecessarily. For thousands of years we have lived in the land beyond the Wall. The north in the east is guarded by the Valar, no men or beast or elf can cross Feanor's Divide. The north here is guarded by your people and we do not meet with them, for good or for worst.”

“On that note, I have to get back to the Wall as soon as my body allows. How long was I out?” Bard retracted his hands awkwardly and with much effort.

“Seven moons.” came the quick reply.

Seven days... What have become of the Wall since then? “I... I beg to speak with your king, if you have one.” Bard requested.

“You are speaking with him.”

Bard's Kingsguard instincts made him look away from the royalty and he hastily apologized for being rude or intrusive.

“What would you have me to do, Bard?” The Elvenking asked and put a reassuring hand on Bard's shoulders. “I am not a human king, Bard. You owe me no submission nor loyalty.”

Bard breathed out and looked into the gray eyes of the Elvenking, highly aware of the unmoving hand on his shoulder. “Before I fell, I saw a pack of direwolves, with the bastard of Winterfell in their lead, headed for the Wall. I beg of you to send aid, your Grace.” Bard would kneel if he had to but his condition and the king being in his personal space impeded his movement.

The Elvenking did not know of any bastards from Winterfell as he was ignorant of much news beyond his borders, but he agreed anyway. “Before I do that, I will send scouts to number their strength. It has been seven moons, Bard, I fear there may be nothing left for us to do.”

There was hope! Bard grinned, “So, you will help us then?”

Bard's white teeth seem to dazzle the Elvenking for he froze visibly before replying. “I-I will. But you must promise me to stay here until I give you leave to depart.” Thranduil said pointedly, wanting to keep the human out of sight until he was healthy and well.

Bard nodded in agreement quickly, not caring about the circumstance as long as the Wall had help. Not caring about the hand on his shoulder, as well.

“Then, I must arrange for it quickly. I will order for food to be sent.”

Before the Elvenking could walk away, Bard grabbed at his robes, all courtesy falling away. “Wait! What is your name, your Grace?”

“Thranduil. I am Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm. The Sindar and Silvan elves are my people.” Thranduil went and put on his boots. “And Bard, do not address me as 'your Grace'. Thranduil will do, Lord Thranduil if you must but I wish you would not.”

He has never heard of a House Oropherion before but regardless, Bard smiled sheepishly. “Yes, my lord.”

 

-

 

When Thranduil stepped out of the tent, his gold dress caught the light of the morning sun and two guards, who were sitting around some rabbit roasts to the left, rushed to position and bowed. “Your orders, my lord.”

Thranduil's lips fidgeted and he tried to keep his countenance from bursting into a fit of laughter. It would have been unbecoming of him. He waved them off, “Go. Enjoy the first meal, it is of utmost importance.”

The guards looked at each other hesitantly before going back to their fare.

The Elvenking sought to look for his son, knowing that Legolas would likely be excessively delighted to hear of any engagement with the enemy. He knew just where to look at this time of the morning. His son would most likely be dining with his unit.

The barracks and armory occupied quite a large land for such a small and enclosed colony that it was situated beside the junction of two rivers, low stone barricades separated its borders from the civilian abodes. It was not that far away from the Elvenking's tent, just a ten minute walk east, behind two rows of dwelling.

When he arrived at the entrance, sure enough, Legolas and his unit were there, sitting atop makeshift benches (which were really just logs of oak) around a fire with some game roasting and whey bread. They were laughing and chatting but one of the duelist spotted the Elvenking and immediately sat himself up while hitting the laughing duelist next to him lightly with his left hand.

Legolas sat across the rigid soldier and followed his line of sight until his eyes came to rest on the Elvenking. He cleared his throat, ceasing all festivity. They stood at once and Legolas came forward to receive his father and king.

“Morning, father! Have you eaten?” He greeted, smiling and just genuinely happy to see his father out of his tent so early. It was a rare occurrence, what with the unfavorable visit to the former king still heavy on his father's heart.

“No, I have not.” as expected and he could see Legolas try to control himself. Many a times Legolas wished he had the courage to lecture his grandfather. “I hope my revelations would not spoil your breakfasts but I need you to appoint two of your best duelists and then meet me in my tent in an hour's time, shorter if your affairs allow.”

“Yes, as you wish.” Legolas knew not to question.

Thranduil smiled and looked behind Legolas, nodding towards his unit and the bowed back. The full team was not there, only those who were not on duty. Legolas commanded an elite team of twenty five duelists – Elves who were trained and have successfully mastered both the bow and sword. Stealthy in the shadows and brutal upfront, they were the realm's best asset and the king's best infantry. Of course, twenty five was not all they had. There were more than two hundred of them but they were often only in groups of ten at most, carrying out the most dangerous of missions.

There used to be a thousand of them residing in Tenerywood and guarding the realm from the forest while the civilians and the wounded legion were safe in the keep, recovering from the War of Feanor. But the Starks were fierce when they first came ashore and sought to take control of the woods. The duelists managed to push them out of their borders, defending their sickly home with their lives. After almost one hundred years of fighting, both sides suffered immeasurable losses. The Starks retreated back to their strait while Thranduil led the remnants of his duelists back to recover in the keep, abandoning the forest and shielding his home with a barrier. The Elvenking loathe to chase for he had no liking to win any battles that was not his to fight.

“I shall leave you to your fare.” Thranduil turned to leave but a small voice made him paused.

“Ada?”

Thranduil turned back, wondering what Legolas wanted but he was met with a crushing embrace from his son. He turned his face to touch his son's cheek, feeling Legolas' smile spread to his face as he grinned.

“Good morning to you, too, my son Legolas.” he finally said, a hand patting Legolas' back.

 

-

 

“Must be some elven magic that keeps this things warm.” Bard mumbled to himself shortly after Thranduil had left. A light smile played on his lips as he glanced around the tent. He was surprised how humbly furnished it was, for a dwelling of a beautiful king such as Thranduil. However, it was quite spacious.

“May I enter, sir?” A female voice questioned.

Bard struggled with himself to get down from the bed in order to greet the visitor with whatever respect he can muster in his sore and topless form. He placed the goblet on the white top desk. “Y-Yes, you may.” Bard almost laughed. Who was he to give permission? He's not the king!

The elf, with pointed ears a little larger than Thranduil's and hair kissed by fire, set a tray atop the desk after pushing away some papers. She had long bright maroon hair, flanked by two neat braids, a quiver of arrows and a bow strapped behind her back. Bard looked at the mess on the desk. It was filled with paper, ink and feather pens, some broken. It looked like a blueprint for a belt or girdle was in the works.

When the elf regarded him, Bard bowed, slightly embarrassed. “I must apologize. A warrior such as yourself should not be serving the likes of me mead and meat, my lady.”

The elf chuckled and grinned, Bard was mesmerized by how carefree she looked up here in the treacherous north. “I am no warrior, human. I am an archer.” She extended her hand to Bard, “I am Tauriel.”

Bard tilted his head before shaking her hand, “And I am Bard.” He retracted his hand and hesitated before asking, “Where did you learn the human form of greeting, if you don't mind me asking?”

He saw Tauriel visibly shocked, as if her hand has just been caught in the cookie jar. She acted slightly flustered, “I-I should go. Please, have your meal.” She turned to leave hastily.

“Wait, wait!” Bard rushed forward to catch her shoulders. She stopped and turned to look at Bard rather defiantly, noses flaring, obviously not used to being handled so rudely. Bard let go of her immediately. “I've not spoken to anyone but the lord Thranduil and he is hardly interesting company.” That got a curious smile from her. “Surely you are not that busy that you could not spare a chat with a sick man? I can keep your secrets, Tauriel.” Bard winked.

 

-

 

When Thranduil neared his now unguarded tent, he could hear chat coming from the inside. It grew louder and louder as he drew near.

“..... You've seen the Wall?!” A voice that could only be Bard, shockingly expressed.

“Y-yes. It's so tall!” Another excited female voice, Thranduil could make out exactly who it was. He shook his head disapprovingly as he entered.

“Who has seen the Wall?” He declared loudly as two heads shot up to look at him. They were sitting on his bed, with a food tray on Bard's straight legs and Tauriel sitting on the side.

Tauriel immediately stood up and bowed her head, unable to face the king. “Go on, Tauriel. I would like to know more about this Wall you say you've seen.”

Thranduil definitely knows what's going on now. There was no way to hide it. “I...-"

The rattle of metal made Tauriel stop as Bard stood up with much effort and stood protectively in front of her, between the king. He could see Thranduil widen his gray eyes in surprise that the ward he saved was now rebelling against him. “It's not her fault. I was the one who made her tell me.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes and stared past Bard. “Still, she has orders never to go past the Fist!” Thranduil made the move to shove Bard away.

Bard boldly kept a hand on Thranduil's chest. He could feel the rumble of his wrath beneath the gold dress. It was not Bard's place to come between a king and his people but it was scarcely Tauriel's fault. Bard's curiosity made her divulge secrets that otherwise would not have seen the light of day as long as she willed. “Tauriel, leave us darling. Surely you have very important duties.”

Thranduil's anger seem only to rise from that. How dare this traitor now try to command his own folk! Thranduil stared daggers at Tauriel's retreating form that inched away slowly and than broke into a full run, sprinting out of the tent. She bumped into Legolas and two duelists on the way.

“What happened in there, Tauriel?” The prince asked, looking softly upon Tauriel's teary face.

“I-I don't think you should go in right now.” and she went away.

Sure enough, Legolas and company, and anyone who was awake and near enough, heard much shouting coming from the inside of Thranduil's tent, the Elvenking too distraught to mask the noise with magic.

 

-

 

“Who do you think you are?!” Thranduil shouted, shoving Bard's hand away from his chest. His sight highly aware of the swords sitting on the antler mount to his right. He has half a mind to cut down this mortal right away. It would be a walk in the park. “She KNOWS she's not allowed out there! I can have her HEAD for her disobedience if I desired!”

“No you won't!” Bard shouted back. Thranduil's anger was certainly legendary as Tauriel had described but Bard could barely believe the harsh words coming out of the king's mouth. “Calm down, you fool! And listen to yourself!” Bard doesn't know where his courage came from but going through six kings when he first joined the Kingsguard surely had a hand in this, he thinks.

“How dare-! Bard!” Thranduil knelt instantly to hold Bard's falling form. Blood splattered his dress as Bard coughed. “Oh, Bard! I'm sorry!” He helped Bard to the bed and served him a goblet of water.

Bard swallowed and shut his eyes tightly before looking back at Thranduil's worried face, all anger had ceased. “No.. I'm sorry.” He drank again. “I know it's not my place but please, Thranduil,” Bard grabbed his shoulder. “Do not punish the lass. She's very young and enthusiastic. I can tell by the way she speaks. Hardly cause for decapitation, Thranduil.”

Thranduil shook his head and he could not believe that he was undone by this mere human. He pressed his lips to Bard's forehead before he could stop himself. “I'll have you know that her seven hundredth origin day is next week.” he smiled. “But yes, I will not punish her. You have my word.”

Bard blinked in mixed shock and confusion, unsure if it was the revelation or the kiss. Probably both. “Oh. Okay..”

 

A warm feeling settled in his heart that day and a bud he never knew he had, blossomed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took longer than expected! I kept writing and could not find a suitable ending so I just... kept writing :) I guess this is a longer chapter!
> 
> Thanks for reading :) Do give me some feedback, I always love the comments <3 and it is very encouraging to me :)


	4. The Hunt

[Accompanying Map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/111739898692/edited-map-for-my-barduil-nights-watch-au-the) **|** [Record of Feanor's War (Time line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)

 

It was shortly before noon that two elves departed from the Elvenking's Keep, lightly armored but heavily armed with two quivers of obsidian arrows and a war bow, each with their own distinctive sword. About their hip was a newly made girdle, enchanted and strapped with two metal vials of Miruvor – a strength reviving cordial - and an assortment of knives. Their armor was of leather, the hide of direwolves, in the colors of their folk – olive and brown – and it was hooded if they ever needed it. Beneath the leather they wore obsidian mail. A black-haired elf of mixed Sindar and Noldor descent was carrying a light pack.

One of them, an elf of Silvan descent, had with him a sword that boasted a longer handle for two-hand use should the situation arise. It's blade was of an elongated 'S' shape, perfect for slicing and dicing. Behind his girdle was strapped a corsair dagger, an heirloom of his family named _Tirith_ – guard in the common tongue - for like his ancestors before him, he was a warden. Haldir was his name and his hair shined like gold as if empowered by the sun.

“How old were you when you were seized by the Starks?” his raven-haired partner asked as they stopped for a short rest at a river junction just a little west of the Fist.

Haldir busied himself with gathering wood and starting a fire, “A little over four hundred.” Haldir loathed to revisit the past, even though he often times thought of his home across the sea.

“Hmm.” his partner nodded. His black orbs were dismal and wondering, unsure if he should prod further. He was too young to be allowed in the war then, but old enough to remember the ships that came back from it. He trained with zeal every day since that sight. He had no dagger behind his girdle but his sword was of a modified lance. The tip of the blade expanded into three sharp lengths down to a round base. It's broadness made for it an unusual cone-shaped sheath. The handle was thick and padded with leather to secure the holder's grip to the heavy sword.

“What is it you wish to know, Fuin?” Haldir evoked a small fire by the river as his eyes watched the restless pacing of his friend, the raven hair distinctive in the backdrop of noon – a trait of his Noldorin parentage. They stopped for a discussion and a light lunch, for they knew not if they would have the chance to eat as they went nearer to the wall.

“Do you...” Fuinvor started but waited till he sat himself beside Haldir to continue, his pack resting on his lap. “Do you miss it? Rivendell? And lord Elrond? And-”

“Yes, I do. Very much so...” Haldir sighed. He rarely talked of home though he thought of it many a times. It was like a time bomb inside him, waiting to explode or, in a less dramatic way, cause him to fade. Every morning when he woke up, he was surprised that he was still in the beige of his hut, his sheets still soft and warm under him, the elflings still playing and the adults still shouting outside. Sometimes, he woke up crying but no one was there to pull him away from his depression. His brothers were slain and his home wrecked when the Starks sacked Rivendell. He's lucky to still be in service to a great king, he thinks. He always wondered what kept him going and what kept him anchored to the mortal realm. “I miss the trees, the green lands and the natural warmth in summer and spring. I...” He stopped himself from mentioning his deceased family, “Have you visited Rivendell?” he looked beside his shoulders with a small smile.

Fuinvor blinked, “No, I can't say I have. I... I was too young. Too...” Fuin looked down at his hands, a sudden overwhelming sadness seemed to engulf him as he dwelt unceasingly in the tragedy of the War. He started to breathe out heavily and panted as if an invisible hand was strangling him.

Haldir frowned and with a firm hand, he shook his friend tightly. At that moment, Fuinvor stopped and breathed as per normal as if nothing had happened. “Do not let the malice affect you! Be wise and take care, for we are close to those beasts!”

Fuin nodded hastily and apologized. He unlaced his pack and took out the frozen meat and bread as they roasted a light fare before continuing their journey, the shadow of death ever looming in their minds.

 

-

 

“Father, could we speak in private, please.” Legolas spoke slowly and making himself as clear as he possibly can.

They had just sent the two duelist out, much to Legolas' annoyance. He was annoyed because he was not sent with them.

Thranduil nodded with flat lips. He looked at Bard wordlessly and led his son out in silence.

There was not a place of privacy for the keep was always flourishing and busy in the day. Thus, father and son set out for the woods and found a secluded area just outside their eastern fence, a few trees shading them from public view. Thranduil could sense the tense form of his son as he looked at his back, Legolas' hands balled in a fist like an elfling throwing a tantrum.

“You think their lives more expendable than mine?” Legolas snarled, not willing to face his father.

Thranduil shook his head but Legolas could not see the despair on his face. “You are angry, Legolas, and I understand that.” He knows his son did not mean what he said. Still, nothing could mask the hurt in his heart but Thranduil would not show it. Every elf seemed a little angrier and a tad more unreasonable since the malice descended upon the land. Thranduil forced himself to forgive his son's bluntness, unwilling to succumb to the shadow that existed in every elf's heart after the War.

“You understand nothing!” Legolas growled. He turned to his father, “I want to be out there!” he pointed directionless into the forest.

Thranduil frowned sadly. “It is but a scouting mission.” he sighed and stared at Legolas with disbelief.

Legolas puts his arm down slowly, the realization that he was being very unreasonable and rude came to him like a weak spark in pitch black darkness. He blinked once. Twice. He was utterly confused at how they came to this scene in the grand scheme of tragedy.

Oh.

Right.

He was angry at his father for not sending him on a _scouting mission_.

Legolas shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. He looked down at his feet dejectedly, “I must apologize. I... I do not know what came over me.” He sniffed and hugged his father immediately as he knew he had hurt the only person who truly loved him. “Ada, I'm sorry.” Legolas whispered.

“It's fine.” Thranduil breathed in the scent of his son. “I know.” They're all trying to keep it together, after all. Some try more than others. Thranduil is one of them. He is king. He has to.

“Stop me. Next time.” Legolas said as they broke the hug. “Stop me because I cannot. Stop me before I say something we will both regret.” he looked at his father gloomily.

Thranduil smiled warmly as he gently caressed his son's face. “Nothing is irreparable, my son. Not between us, no.” Thranduil leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Legolas' head. “There isn't one thing that cannot be reconciled.”

 

-

 

Bard felt utterly useless and weak laying in Thranduil's bed, not going out there with the elves. He desperately wanted to get back to the Wall. He missed Thorin's lectures (and sometimes kind words, if the Lord Commander could afford it), he missed the warm fires and the nights spent huddled around the feasting hall, drinking and laughing of days past. At times, the brothers would share interesting (and sad) stories from their abandoned lives. Bard does not know why he complied to join the Night's Watch when the late king Robert Baratheon beseech him ten years ago but he sure as hell knew why he stayed – The camaraderie between men was like no other. Not even in the Kingsguard had he seen such partnership and harmony.

He wonders now if Thranduil could work some potent magic and fix this broken body of his so that he could at least be out and about, even if he could not survive a trip through the treacherous snow back to the Wall as of yet.

A few groans, a drink and some mindless pacing later, Thranduil came back into the tent with a thin book. It was of a dark red color, like dried blood. It looked used and well loved, but not tattered. Though, some the edges seem to have succumbed to ageless folding.

“What is that..?” He asks and a second later, “Do you think you have any man-sized clothes for me?” he asks as he was still top less and did not think he would look good in robes or dresses. Bard much preferred to be in versatile shirts or coats. “Where are my....” he swirls to look around the tent and then his eyes settled on Thranduil, his eyebrows rising.

Thranduil's eyes tried to look everywhere but at Bard. “They were dirty and torn. I had them.... disposed of.” he answered, carefully choosing his words.

Well, Bard would not question a king's discretion. He merely nods and accepts some folded garment Thranduil took from his wardrobe. But there was a longing in his heart for the raven cloak of the Night's Watch. However, he keeps silent.

Bard donned the clothing, feeling uneasy and slightly stressed as the Elvenking kept a curious eye on him like a predator would its prey. It sent shivers down his spine and made Bard feel slightly smaller. He comes to admit to himself that this elf was potent, dangerous and ancient, with a temper to match it.

He now wore a fitted sleeveless vest in an olive color that matched his velvet pants as Thranduil took him to the elves' apothecary. Underneath the vest was a lengthy but soft light brown tunic, its sleeves extended to his wrist and the cloth reached just before his knees. He realized that he was dressed in the colors of Thranduil's folk and that lightened his heart and softened his features.

There were curious glances and whispers when they got out of the Elvenking's tent. Some he heard and was embarrassed,

“... He called the king a fool!” an elfmaiden whispered not so softly.

Thranduil seemed ignorant to their whispers but Bard could feel the grip on his left shoulder tighten and the pointed ears to the right of him twitch each time they passed matured elves who were eyeing them. On the way to the apothecary, Thranduil had bristled when an elfling was laughing at him before his mother came to apologize and take him away.

If not for Bard pulling Thranduil away as they neared the apothecary, the Elvenking certainly would have picked up the elfling and proceeded to bury him in snow as he squealed.

The overseeing healer was introduced as Lindir. He bowed respectfully and shook Bard's hands with an amusing smile that made Bard question everything. Lindir then busied himself with whatever Thranduil ordered. Bard has no idea for the language they spoke was not known to him.

They proceeded to wait on the benches as Lindir disappeared behind some doors leaving his young apprentice to watch over the oak counter.

Lindir was a skillful healer, gifted in the healing arts and had studied under lord Elrond when he was but a hundred years old. He lived in the then Rivendell, in the full bloom of autumn. It was only ten years later that the war would come. Another ten years after that, he was shaken from his sleep one night, waking to the chiming of bells and horrid screams of elflings being taken from their homes. They were being siege in the dead of night, the malice of Winterfell strong and the direwolves even stronger.

The only things he remembered after that was, Thranduil said, the flames like dragonfire outside his windows and the howls of night as he was blindfolded and taken aboard a familiar ship, one of elvish make.

A thick atmosphere settled about the Elvenking and his friend. “Where did you find him? Are there others like him?” Bard questioned, his face contorted in worry and pain.

Thranduil nodded. “Sadly, yes. When my people moved north after the Starks came, the keep was guarded from the forest by one thousand of my duelists.” Thranduil's eyes softened, his forehead creased and he found his hands playing with the fabric on Bard's shoulders, as if to find something to anchor himself. “A few years after we retreated, five of my warriors brought back thirty elves who wandered into the forest. Lindir and Haldir were two of them. There are ten others.... Presumably still in Dire Landing.”

Bard's mouth was wide open after Thranduil dispensed the information. It was a little overwhelming and very upsetting to hear of children being kidnapped. It was like the War of Feanor all over again. “Retreat? Was there a fight?”

“Yes... A hundred years it lasted in Tenerywood.” Thranduil said sadly.

Bard tried to internalize these information. Sure, the academy in the south taught of the war that happened three thousand years ago but not of whatever that happened after that. No one told him that when Rivendell was sacked, elflings were kidnapped (again!). No one told him about this hundred year battle in the north. It seemed that when the Wall was built, the north went into secrecy with it. This was all new information to him and it greatly saddened him that this beautiful and immaculate being in front of him had lived through _all that_ and came out the other side, a great king of a good people. Bard now only began to understand where all the Elvenking's anger would come from and Bard found it justified.

He looked deep into Thranduil's eyes, unknowing that a stray tear now found its way to roll down Bard's cheeks.

“No...” Thranduil panicked and immediately held Bard's face between his hands. “Do not weep for that which is not your trouble, Bard Girion.”

To stop himself from making a mess, Bard said nothing and just hugged Thranduil tightly. He sniffed and made a silent promise to himself that if it were in his power, he would not allow Thranduil to come close to anymore hurt.

 

-

 

The castle in the shadow of the Wall was majestic, big and old, many times repaired. It boasted of great halls, several huts as far as the elven eyes can see and two tall towers that belched gray smoke. It was only one color – Black. There seemed to be a make shift stone and oak cage that looked out of place, a young man cloaked in gray and white was chained inside with his direwolf with him. He was seated slump in the jail, stroking the wolf lazily. He seemed to have lost all hope.

The two duelist indeed passed the remains of Bard's unit as they traveled on the side of the river. It was all but charred bones for they were meals for another pack that came behind those that had left. It strangely also smelt like a sort of poisoned fire as though someone was concocting an explosive.

Haldir pulled Fuinvor back down as the latter tried to step closer for a further look. The snow had worsened as night caught up to day. They were hiding behind a snow dune at the western border of Castle Black, across a wide stream that flowed from the sea. “What do you think you're doing?!”

Fuin pouted, “I just want to know who they've got! What if it's one of _us_?” He was referring to the kidnapped elves who remained in Dire Landing.

“Do you think a direwolf would lounge with the enemy?” Haldir questioned, slightly frustrated. “Do not be rash! We must send word back to the Keep!”

“What would we say? We have nothing substantial if we stay and hide here!” Fuinvor whispered angrily.

He was impatient and he looked to the Wall once more. He could spot that there were at least three thick gates that provided passage in and out of the north, but one gate nearest to where they were was smoking and boarded with wooden planks.

“One of the gates is shredded! The pack... probably three dozens have made it past the Wall!” Fuinvor turned to Haldir. “ _Mellon_ , go back to the Keep with haste of this information!”

Haldir nodded. If direwolves had penetrated the Wall, the realm was in danger. Word would reach the south soon enough but news to the north counted on their two shoulders now. “Come back with me!” Haldir urged his friend.

But Fuinvor was unsatisfied. He desperately wanted to know who was caught. The thought that it might be one of them plagued his mind. The shadow in his heart was drawn to the malice of Winterfell and his thirst could not be quenched until. “You have my word that I will follow behind soon!” Young he was, and rash.

“Fuin! Please!” Haldir loathe to leave his friend behind for it reminded him of the ten elves he left behind then when thirty of them escaped Dire Landing.

But Fuinvor did not heed Haldir's pleading. He chased the Silvan elf away, Haldir left and made for the keep reluctantly but with a sense of urgency. With his grip on Tirith tight, hood up and swift pace, his heart prayed to the Valar for Fuinvor's safety and swift return.

 

 

* * *

 _Fuinvor_ (sindarin) – _Fuin_ meaning 'dark' and _vor_ as in _avorn_ , meaning 'fast'.

 _Mellon_ (sindarin) – Friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Do read/refer to the map and time line found at the top of this chapter :) To help me and my readers keep up with all the history-dropping in the fic, I created a time line (painstakingly! my head almost exploded!). Of course, there are no spoilers in the time line, I only recorded what has been mentioned :) Will keep that updated as I go along.
> 
> Thank you for all comments, really appreciate the feedback :)


	5. TO ARMS! part I - There In The Eye Is

[Accompanying Map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/111739898692/edited-map-for-my-barduil-nights-watch-au-the) | [Record of Feanor's War (Time line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)

 

 

The girdle about him emits a soft glowing red as he crawls nearer. He knows then that the man inside the cage was not an elf but a young man who looked barely out of his youth. His hair was of black curls as black as the wall, shoulder length and parted to the side. His skin pale as if malnourished but his jaw was strong and his face of a worried frown. His young face spotted a growing beard but nothing to burly. He was younger than the ward that the Elvenking had taken in, Fuinvor decides.

There was a stir, a noise and all fires was suddenly blown out. No light came from the wall, only clouds of white smoke. He could faintly make out that a man of broad statue was shouting orders in the common tongue. Fuinvor decides that man must be a commander or leader or someone of high rank for wherever he pointed, men seemed to follow him unquestioningly. He had about him a coat of thick brown fur, his head of mane was long and wavy, spread to the sides of his shoulder, with two braids neatly tucked behind his ears on each side. He had a handsome face with a neat goatee. His skin was tanned and he looked older and more experienced than those he was commanding.

Then, that man laughed heartily and it sounded like the best voice Fuin had ever heard. Fuin grinned and let out a small chuckle. But that chuckle seemed a little too loud and now he found himself staring at the leader, eye to eye. The leader held his gaze as he stepped out of the shadow of his companions and nearer to the lake that separated him from the spy in the night. His companions asked something and the leader just held up a hand to shoo them away and they did. Fuin swallowed, his statue cowering as he walked a few steps back, thinking to hide behind the snow dune. However, the snow had since ceased and he found there was no dune to hide behind anymore. His girdle stops glowing as he stepped further away from the Wall.

He could run! But what use was there? They were not enemies. He was not a Stark and neither was the leader! If he ran now, he might be leading a hundred men into the keep and the Elvenking would have his head for that, for sure. Fuinvor looked behind him helplessly. Nothing shielded him from the strong gaze of the threatening leader. He looked back and the leader held up a hand as if to signal him to come forward. Fuin opened his mouth, his eyes now smaller and he shook his head and held his hands in front of him protectively. He panicked and the way he shook his head showed it.

The leader frowned and started to walk along the river until he could cross it at a narrower width.

Fuin really wanted to run now. _'I am an elf!_ ' he thought angrily. _'I will stand my ground against this man!_ ' and stood his ground he did. His hands gripped his sword as he eyed the man now crossing the river that went up to below his knees. Fuin backed away cautiously as he loathed for more men to spot him from the wall. The leader seemed physically strong but unarmed. However, as he came nearer, Fuinvor could spot that he wore armor and mail.

They were now out of sight of the wall and as the leader came nearer in his direction, Fuinvor drew his war bow from behind him, armed five arrows swiftly and pointed it at the leader.

“Do not approach any further or the Valar help us both!” Fuin declared, hoping that the threat would keep the man away. But his backing steps betrayed his bravery.

The leader held up his hands in front in surrender and stopped. His face was expressionless, “I am Thorin.” He procured. “Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. You stand outside the border of the Wall, what business have you?” He squinted as he tilted his head, as if trying to get a closer look at something. “You're.... You're an _elf_?!” He asked in disbelief.

Thorin scanned the elf. A war bow that arms five arrows. Declaration of the Valar, the Gods of old. Yes, an elf indeed. “I do not believe this!” He chanced a few steps nearer but Fuinvor held his ground. “We are not enemies!” Thorin flexed his coat. “I am unarmed and you are swift.”

Fuinvor gave a satisfied look and withdrew his arrows but did not sheath his war bow.

 

-

 

Bard and Thranduil stood outside the armory as the sun shone high in the sky. Haldir had gotten back to the keep in the wee hours of morning with a report that the Starks had broken out the Wall at the western gate using explosives and that Fuinvor had stayed so that he could find out the identity of the man who was locked in their cage.

Thranduil then had ordered Haldir to get some sleep much to the disappointment of the duelist. He longed to go back to his friend but he could not disobey the command of his kin. He retreated to his tent with a heavy heart.

“What are you going to do after this?” Bard asked, eyes fixed on the scene in front of him.

The pair had argued for a little while after Haldir left the king's tent with his reports. Bard unwilling to leave Thranduil alone here in the north and the king insisting that he was not some weak elfling that needed protection. Bard was anxious to get back to the Wall. Many thoughts ran through his head – What was the communication between the Wall and the south? Has King Joffrey said anything? Has the Wall sent men after the thirty – maybe more – or did the Wall decide to sit back? Will the Wall attack the Northmen at Dire Landing?

The shadow in Thranduil's heart took a hold of him then and he cursed the sentiment of men. He refused to lead the charge for he was unwilling to involve his people to suffer another war of men and thrones. He also loathed to argue with the mortal for he favored him but he was king and needed to put his people first. He hated the fact that he loved the mortal but could do nothing for him. He hated that he loved.

Thus a compromise was needed. Thranduil knew Legolas was fit and eager, which is why they were at the armory now, waiting for Legolas to assemble two hundred elfwarriors and fifty elfarchers. They were to escort Bard back to the Wall and aid in any battle or reconstruction efforts. If the Wall decided to march south, Thranduil gave leave to Legolas to march with them. This was the best he could do for Bard. The king cannot leave this keep or the barrier would not hold. The Valar knows the strait was still a threat to them. The very fact that the Starks were _just there_ put him off more than anything but the hundred year assault had proved that neither side had the strength to delete the other from the plane of existence. Now? Thranduil would rather not underestimate the Starks' prowess in war.

Thranduil remained silent and his face vacant of feeling but in his heart was a turmoil. He was afraid that if he spoke more with the mortal, he would be inclined to leave the keep with him. So, he kept silent though he longed to just tie Bard to his bed and disallow him leave.

Bard sighed as Thranduil played the passive-aggressive game with himself. “I wish that you would come with us, Thranduil.”

The Elvenking closed his eyes and swallowed forcefully. _'Dammit._ ' he cursed in his mind. Thranduil was really trying to control himself. He could scoop up and carry Bard back to his tent right this moment and no one would dare nor have the strength to stop him. His honor stayed his vulgar actions.

Bard has had enough of this silent treatment. He frowned and grabbed Thranduil's shoulders, forcing the Elvenking to face him roughly. His frown was met with Thranduil's own. Movements seemed to stop around them. Legolas stared at the scene and some elflings bumped into one another.

Gasps were heard around them at such a rude treatment of the king. “What is wrong with you?!” Bard muttered angrily with a tint of worry.

“Nothing!” Thranduil shoved Bard out of his way and made for the tent, fully expecting Bard to follow and the man did.

Bard entered the tent with his hands on his hips, looking at the back of Thranduil who crossed his arms. The orange of the tent paled in comparison to the gold of Thranduil's robes and hair. Bard does not wish to mistake the king's favor towards him for affection but he did not miss the way Thranduil looked at him or how comfortable Thranduil was in his personal space. Thranduil did not seem like the type of person to open himself so easily but Bard has also grown very fond of the elf to let whatever this is between them pass up.

The tent was incredibly silent except for Bard's whisper. “Hey...” Bard uttered and put a hand on the Elvenking's right shoulder. Thranduil's tense form relaxed and dropped his head as if in guilt. Bard swallowed and seeing that Thranduil did not dismiss his advance, he dared to caress the elf's neck. The skin was smooth and he could feel Thranduil lean in to his touch.

Bard took this as confirmation that there was a sort of special affection between them. His feet brought him closer as their bodies touched. Bard embraced the Elvenking from behind, his hand now moved from the shoulder to across Thranduil's chest. Another hand snaked in front to grab the hands that were still crossed.

Bard could feel relenting anger from Thranduil. It was a dangerous kind of receding wave that might just arise again if Bard was not careful.

“I do not know how you feel, except that you are angry.” Bard whispered in the pointed ears that twitched. “But I know how I feel. I like what we have-”

“What _do_ we have?” Thranduil finally spoke but he still sounded upset. “You're _leaving_.”

“Do not speak it as though we will never see each other again.” He kissed Thranduil's neck softly, “This is not final.”

Out of the blue, Thranduil spun around and grabbed Bard's head forward in a crushing kiss. Bard moaned into Thranduil's mouth as their tongues explored foreign territory. Bard's very sure this was part of Thranduil's plan to keep him here or delay him so he broke the kiss reluctantly.

“Thranduil,” He started but was cut off.

“I long to strap you to my bed so that you would not depart from me...” Thranduil admitted, eyes yearning and heart wishing he could have but a longer time with Bard.

Bard smirked and kissed Thranduil one more time. “One day, we can do that, my love.” He caressed Thranduil's face and his chest ached as he spoke the next words, “But it is not today.” It was only now that Bard's oaths sat heavily on his heart that made him uncertain of his own words. He was not a dishonorable person, no. But this, **this**! This made him think twice, this made him take risks and this gave him courage.

 _'There are loopholes in the oaths, too, I guess._ ' was his last thought.

 

-

 

When Bard left his tent for armor fitting, he felt his heart torn out of its vessel. And when he felt a mass of entities leaving the barrier, that was when it dawned on him that they were truly gone now. His son and his heart.

Now the Elvenking sat on his bed, the sheets not feeling quite as soft without Bard to warm it and the frame felt stiffer than usual. His tent was a shade darker and his sword now sat lonelier on the antler mount. He looked at it and wondered how solitude could affect him so when it has never troubled him this much before.

 _'Are you ever going back for them?_ ' Bard had asked the day before when they came back from the apothecary. _'It has been more than two thousand years, Bard.._ ' he had answered. And then he had watched Bard shook his head and shrugging, as if there was a chance that the ten abducted elves were still alive even _now_. Thranduil in his heart knew well they would have faded from their misery but that would have been a laughable information to the human.

 _Death by heartbreak_.

Bard would have deemed him weaker then if not this morning. An elf that could survive being kidnapped and forced to use his power for evil would be a rather resolute elf but Thranduil could not perceive such existence. Even he knew in his kingdom there were a few who dreaded waking up to the white landscape that had befallen them since the War ended. They would wish themselves dead and even Thranduil had that notion the first few years after losing his wife. But he was crowned king then and so had dragged his feet for those miserable years. Now, he had to stay strong for his father, Legolas and for Bard. Oh, Valar, he does not know what he _wouldn't_ do for Bard.

Most of his people were getting better and as king, there was no way he would fail them now. He loathed each day waking up to this barren land but he loathe even more to leave Oropher and Legolas – and now Bard – when things seemed to be going well.

It was the little things that tethered Thranduil to this accursed immortal life.

Thranduil looks up to the roof of his tent and breathes out heavily. He blinks a few times before settling into his chair. He started to pen a few more spells into his dark red book.

It was an artifact from a long time ago, before the war began. The book had been given to him by lord Elrond of Rivendell and the elflord had boasted it's magical concealing powers. Thranduil did not believe him at first, thinking that the lord was merely teasing him (and congratulating him) for mastering the healing arts after one hundred years. However, that was not the reason why Thranduil had found no use of the book until.... Well, until after the war.

It was the first gift he had received from an elder.

Though close in age, Thranduil considered the elflord senior to him for he was of the Noldor, a wise and advance tribe of elves. Thranduil had deemed the book too cherished and did not bear to write anything in it. It took him more than a few years after the war for him to open the prized book for it reminded him how much he missed his mentor, and then it would remind him of the war and the wife he lost in that war, which made him put the book aside.

It took him a long time to finally come to terms with all that was lost. Writing in the book seemed like a new journey to Thranduil, and he welcomed the feeling of accomplishment when he finished a page. It was the least he could do in remembrance and gratitude of Rivendell and Elrond.

Though, it seems that not much work will be done this day for the Elvenking was too distraught and distracted to continue. He closed the book and knocked his feather quill pen lightly on the perlite top and he pondered. The silence of the tent without Bard's breathing was daunting but it made him think deep. _Was there a chance that the elves were still alive at Dire Landing_? Screw that. Would he _even_ march on the eastern shore if he _knew_ they were alive? Thranduil refused to answer himself for he was afraid of the consequences.

He sighed in exasperation and banged on the table. “Curse it!” he whispered to no one. “Curse the sentiment of men!” before he stomped out of the tent to give his commander the order to mobilize a third of the troops.

A third was five hundred and Amastel got to work quickly. “Our mark, my king?” he asked for he needed at least that information to know how many of which to assemble.

“ _I raug caew._ ” He snarled before the commander gave a respectful nod and hurried away.

 

-

 

Lindir was experimenting with a new enchantment on different potions and herbs to see which would compliment and harness the spell to be imbued into an obsidian bracelet. He sighed for the umpteenth time when the spell either calcified the potion or disintegrated the herbs. There was only one potion out of many that he tried that could contain the spell but when he tried to douse the bracelet with it, the obsidian had hydrated almost instantly, becoming white perlite. This signified that the potion had scarcely contained the spell, if it did at all, and turned into mineral water instead.

“Tsk.” he muttered. He did not have much obsidian bracelets to work with for the armory was over packed (and behind schedule) for the new girdles the king had commissioned to be made and enchanted with a new spell.

He was now left with one. He sighed loudly but a shimmer of starlight made him look up from his work station.

It was the Elvenking in full armor.

“Leaving your apprentice all by himself again, I see.” Thranduil said as he looked over the messy and presumably poisonous table. He backed away for a few steps and sniffed the air. “The atmosphere is fascinating in here, Lindir. What are you up to this time?”

Lindir smiled and nodded respectfully but his look of dismay quickly returned to his face. “Trying to imbue a new spell into a bracelet, and failing.”

Thranduil eyed the only obsidian on the table, “Luck is not on your side today.” he remarked.

Lindir sighed again. “My king, since you are here at this very hour, would you mind choosing a potion and a herb so that I may be relieved of this burden?” he grinned.

Thranduil smirk and his eyes twinkled with joy and cheek, “Might I remind you, Lindir.” he said as he inspected the shelves filled with unopened potions and baskets of herbs, “My vocation at Rivendell was not in brew or herbs. I also regret to inform you that I cannot heal inanimate objects.”

“Ah, right. There is no pressure nor responsibility. If there is, I shall assume it.” Lindir bowed jokingly.

Thranduil contemplated before picking a golden potion that contained a hint of green swirling in the contents. Next, he picked out a few leaves that looked like stars, four-pointed with a yellow border. He passed them to Lindir, feeling accomplished.

“Ah..” Lindir remarked as he unsealed the potion and gave it a little swirl, “ _Bronwe_ , the elixir of endurance.” He then took a new bowl and mixed the herb with the potion. “Lemon thyme... Good eye, my lord. Men of old say thyme is a symbol of courage.” He began crashing the thyme to dissolve it into the potion as he looked at Thranduil, pleased that the smile had not left his king's countenance.

Lindir closed his eyes and muttered the spell softly for the umpteenth time today, hoping earnestly that his efforts would pay off this time. There was a soft noise and than a shimmering glow that stayed with the liquid until Lindir had opened his eyes. The hope in his heart grew. The shimmer was much brighter than the first 'successful' one which was a sign that it could work this time. Lindir then placed the obsidian bracelet into the liquid and waited.

Sure enough, bracelet absorbed the liquid without hydrating or exploding. It was a success! There was a big smile on Lindir's face and he could not explain the sense of comfort and accomplishment that washed over him.

“I'm assuming this is good...?”

Lindir smiled and handed the now dry bracelet to Thranduil. “ _Mellon nin_ , it seems luck is on _your_ side today.”

 

-

 

Thranduil played with the bracelet on his right wrist as he held his hand in front of his face, scrutinizing it.

It was not an elaborate piece of jewelry. A thin obsidian band that was no more than half an inch in width. However, what fascinated him was the rainbow colored shine that it spotted when it caught the light.

As he entered the meeting hall in the armory, he could see that his commander and captains were already assembled for the strategy meet. There was, of course, Amastel, his trusted commander; Tauriel, captain of the archers and Galion, captain of the warriors. The duelists were ill-numbered and Thranduil preferred to keep them out of harm's way until more could be added to their midst.

A map was already laid out and Tauriel proposed that instead of the usual way (marching out of Tenerywood), they could take the route further east by sea, which would take them much closer to Dire Landing without having to fight through the guarded strait nor risk fighting on the wrong side of the river. Galion supported her idea, giving the reason that the shores were filled with ruins of rotting wood and stone from the war, which would provide them with cover and rest should they need it. Thranduil listened attentively and nodding, agreeing with them.

They then discussed and settled on the numbers and formation. They agreed on three hundred and eighty warriors and one hundred and twenty archers. Galion would appoint a forerunner from his unit, to lead twenty to scout, while twenty archers would trail behind them, led by Tauriel. Thranduil and Amastel will then march with the warriors, flanked by fifty archers while Galion will march behind them, with the permission to command a retreat should they be ambushed from the back. Thranduil did not want to take any chances for he knew not if the ruins were inhabited by the Starks.

As they began to wrap up and prepare for the night assault, a commotion from the doors caught their attention.

“They're in a meeting, you can't-” before the doors to the hall burst open, revealing a very distraught Haldir who was in simple tunics and breeches, having just woken up from his sleep due to the noise of metal clinging and boots marching heavily.

Amastel coughed and the atmosphere in the meeting hall became unbearable. Thranduil stepped forward, a hand on Haldir's shoulder, trying to usher him out of the awkward situation. “You need rest.” he said. “Come, go back to bed.” and he tried to pull Haldir out of the armory.

Haldir held his footing. “No! I mean, no.. my king.” he corrected himself. “I apologize for intruding but please! I'm certain our unit would gladly march with you!” Haldir shook his head, “How could you not tell me of this?” and he looked at Thranduil with the saddest eyes he could muster.

As he looked at Haldir, who was one of the abducted elves, Thranduil could not help but be affirmed in his cause to make war on Dire Landing. His heart wrenched as he looked upon the desperation Haldir's eyes and he could not help also, to blame himself for not rescuing the other ten. “I should have done this sooner.” but Thranduil shook his head slowly. “I cannot have you, of all my people, or any of the thirty, suffer my failure again. Please, Haldir, go back to your tent.” Thranduil simply looked at the guards and they came to take Haldir away.

Haldir roughly pushed the guards away and he startled Thranduil when he sank to his knees, “ _Aran nin!_ ” He cried out. “Please! We have never blamed you nor thought less of you! Never! I beg of you, do not restrain me out of guilt but send me forth out of compassion!”

Thranduil bent down, wanting to help Haldir up but the younger elf refused to budge. Thranduil sighed and laid a hand on Haldir's head. “ _Mellon nin_ , it gladdens my heart that you are so forgiving of me.” Thranduil gave a small look to his back and his commander and captains stood to attention, knowing that a change of plans was at hand. “As you say, then, I will not restrain you any longer. Haldir, I hereby command you to lead the Prince's unit as forerunners.”

“Yes, my lord!”

 

 

* * *

 

 _I raug caew_ (sindarin) _–_ The terrible lair, referring to Dire Landing.

 _Amastel_ (sindarin) - _Ama_ as in _amath_ , meaning 'shield' and _stel_ as in _estel_ , meaning 'hope'.

 _Aran nin_ (sindarin) – My king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first time I wrote a plan before writing the story because it's all quite elaborate and drawn out in my head. Thranduil and Bard will be separated for awhile as the elves prepare to march way out of their comfort zone and it seems a second war is brewing.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for reading :).


	6. TO ARMS! part II - The Calm Before

**[Accompanying Map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction) | [Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

 

Thranduil stood at his table with a hand hovering over a silver orb on a wooden base. He willed it to show him the borders of his land and in it he could see the guards at the fences changing shifts, marking that it was nearly evening. He took his hand away and the cloud inside the orb rested. He took it and held it behind him, covered by his silver cape as he exited the tent.

It would be an hour before the march.

 

-

 

As he neared the bridge, he could make out that his father was testing out a new bow. Though, at his distance now, he could not make out the design of the bow, only that it was a dark maroon color and it shone as it caught the light of the setting sun.

Thranduil sought to cross but the one of the two guards that manned his side of the bridge came forward to stop him, his shield set between the king and himself.

“Fael, what is the meaning of this?” Thranduil asked with a hint of amusement.

“ _Aran nin,_ ” Fael nodded politely. “We have orders to keep away _any_ visitors.” He then took a step back as he saw Thranduil's eyes darken. “Pardon me, my lord.” but the two guards made no way for Thranduil to pass over if not by force.

Thranduil bit his lips in an unkingly fashion, like an elfling being ushered away from the meeting of adults. He strained his head to the side and saw Oropher engaged in target practice, launching arrow after arrow unceasingly. Even from his spot, Thranduil could feel his father's discontent.

Though in his heart he did marvel at how much control and rule the former king still had over the troops, Thranduil did not covet his father's power for it meant that Oropher was still within reach of his people, if not the civilians then at least the loyal army.

“Fael, I know that in this I have no say but please let me through, I have affairs of urgency to confer with my father before I march.” Thranduil was slightly embarrassed to ask for permission to see his own father.

Long after the war, the Woodland army still remained loyal to Oropher even though Thranduil became king. Oropher's retreat into solitude after his recovery put a dampen on the joy that came with his healing. Now, the guards that were attached to Oropher grew more and more protective of their first king.

Fael sighed and gave way, so did his partner. “We cannot guarantee the safety of your heart, my lord.”

“Aye.” Thranduil agreed as he walked past them, “Neither can I.” He took a right turn, past the stone house, coming to a stop as his father now stood between him and the White River.

Oropher stood parallel to the river, pulled his bow and said, “Not again.” before he let loose another arrow to one of the four targets he had set a hundred meters across from him.

“Who ventured to see you before me?” Thranduil asked in a light tone, trying to dispel the electrically charged atmosphere. Oropher was dressed in a dark lavender fitted robe that parted at his hips to reveal red leggings. His wavy hair was tied in a high pony tail for the winds that came from the Gale Mountains were especially strong this far north.

“Your son.” Oropher spat, the words rolling off his tongue as though Legolas was not his grandchild.

Thranduil's countenance fell at the mention and tone of his father. “Whatever did you speak with him about?”

“The same thing that I will tell you.” Oropher turned to face his son. “Abandon the march.”

“These lands belong to us and I will-”

“The lands belong to the gods. They do not belong to you nor I, or any man or beast.” Oropher went away to retrieve the arrows before walking past Thranduil back to the house. He stopped just before the door and said, “Do not treat with me under the pretense that your cause for battle is noble for we both know very well it is anything but.”

Oropher left the door open and Thranduil rushed to meet his father in the house. He closed the door behind him and placed the glass orb carefully on the now empty stone table.

Oropher kept the arrows away and mounted the bow on the wall before turning. As soon as his eye caught the sight of the enchanted orb, anger welled up inside his chest. “No.” he growled. “I refuse.”

Thranduil always tried to be careful with his words so that he could obtain any ounce of favor or love from Oropher but today proved otherwise. “Father, I am not here to gain your blessings.” Though he yearned that his father would give him leave. “I will march on the beast's lair whether or not I have it.” _but if you still have love for me, go with me._ – These words threatened to come out but Thranduil willed them away for the shadow in his heart convinced his mind that his father indeed had no more love for him.

That night, each were left to his own thoughts whether or not the other loved them.

 

-

 

When Bard and Legolas neared the border, the First Ranger stayed the host and went to the Wall, with him went the Elvenprince as well. Then, Fuinvor came out of a large door, munching and laughing heartily with Thorin by his side, dropped the bread in his hands and ran towards the Prince.

“Fuin!” The Prince shouted, “I am ever glad to see you, _mellon nin_!” for they were of one unit, and the unit was reunited once more.

“We've treated him well.” Thorin said behind them as he sauntered over, his boots crushing the snow. “You must be the Prince beyond the Wall?”

“Aye, but I am at your mercy here, sir!” A crowd now gathers about them. No one said a word for the Lord Commander did not seem to be in danger.

Then Thorin gave the hearty laugh again that Fuin so loved, “I am no ser. That term is reserved for those who have been knighted by kings. Thorin will do, uh...”

Legolas nodded and bowed, “Legolas is I, Thorin.” then Legolas pointed over the river and over the border, “There lay our escorts, may they take rest here and aid you in these trying times?”

The Lord Commander could see the silver armor of the elves against the backdrop of the setting sun, no more than three hundred he presumed. Thorin was apprehensive for they do not house visitors, at least not in such numbers. Though, they had the field space for it. And if Thorin would admit, they did needed some aid for the Hand of the King had requested the Wall to march half it's soldiers south. They were shorthanded, if they even had enough to man the Wall to begin with. Their best now out and the brothers were still mourning for the dead. “Yes, I will grant our fields for them to make camp. Please convey my gratitude to your king for he is most gracious.” Thorin looked around them, “Many will not be very friendly, Legolas, for they are mourning and their brethren now south of the Wall. Take heed where your men thread. The field and feasting hall are opened to them, not other.”

“I will see to it. Thank you for your hospitality, Thorin.”

 

-

 

When Haldir caught sight of the ruins, he went forth with the Prince's unit first while Thranduil's host stopped behind for his news.

The ruins were empty of life, save the rats and flies that made it their home.

Haldir raised his hands and made a forward sign. The army then came to a stop at the ruins for rest while Haldir went further to scout the strait of Dire Landing.

Now, the sun was fully set behind the Gale Mountains but there was no fire nor smoke from the strait. Haldir found it strange that such a warlike people did not have guards set around their borders. He sent one duelist ahead towards Dire Landing.

After several minutes, he came back, reporting that it was indeed empty.

“No...” Haldir muttered. The unit stood eager, expectant of a command or anything. “Stay here.” Haldir commanded before running back to the ruins.

Everything was far too quiet.

 

-

 

“It's empty...” Thranduil looked around the stone houses and ice forts while Galion kept watch from the back. “There is nothing here. No weapons, no wolf, no life...!” Thranduil cursed and half ran towards the eastern shore.

The wind from the sea bit him as he traced his steps south along the banks of the sea.

His army was scouring the strait for any sign of life, whether man, beast or elf. Thranduil shouted, “Tauriel! Haldir! Here!” and they came with their respective units. “Look!” He gestured to the eroded banks. “There is no mistake. They've passed through here, marching south. _All_ of them!” Thranduil paced nervously for he knew the two and fifty elves at the Wall would not survive, much less hold the Wall.

“They would have reached the Wall by now!” Tauriel exclaimed.

“We will march immediately. We cannot rest now!” Thranduil then turned to Haldir. “Go! Take your men to aid the Prince and most importantly, find Fuinvor and make certain that he is safe!” Haldir bowed swiftly. Before the duelist could turn away, Thranduil grabbed his arm. “Take this.” The king took the bracelet from his own wrist and put it on Haldir's. “I do not know yet what it does but I hope there is no need for it. Godspeed!” Haldir smiled gratefully before he went away, shouting orders.

“Your orders, my king?” Tauriel asked.

Thranduil turned and put both hands on her shoulders, as if to steady her for a heavy burden. “There is a task you must do, Tauriel. Alone.”

“Anything.” she replied bravely.

“Make haste for the keep and muster eight hundred of our elves. Head south for the Wall, Tauriel, if not to defend then to give chase. There is no elf that I can spare to go with-”

“It will be my pleasure, my lord.”

Thranduil smiled. “Go now, my fearless captain.”

When Thranduil got back to the strait to reorganize his troops, reports came of orange colored dust that were no doubt the remains of poisoned fire. Thranduil frowned as memories of the War flooded his mind. “If it be true that the Targaryens are there with the Starks, the Wall will not hold.”

 

Thus Thranduil gathered his army and marched with haste southwards along the shore.

 

 

* * *

 _Fael_ (sindarin) - Fair minded/just, generous.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I did not update for so long! I have been busy with life (and writer's block) :P Also, I'm going to start reading Tolkien's Middle-Earth saga chronologically using a calculator from here: http://www.chronology.org/tolkientable/calculator.html
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for reading!


	7. TO ARMS! part III - The Storm

**[Accompanying Map](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction) | [Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

 

Numerous olive tents gave color and life to the black and white walls. The elves mostly stayed near their tents, with some going into the feasting hall to get food for others. They did not want to dine with the men in the hall for they felt they might be imposing on them. Their numbers were great and they wanted to gain favor with the men.

The young man in the cage frowned when he saw his enemies. His direwolf had bristled and growled, but the young man calmed it.

Many whispers were heard _'Who is that?_ ', _'Why is he still alive!_ ' and the likes. All the girdles glowed red and it made the elves uncomfortable. Legolas had tried his best to calm his kin but the shadow in their hearts had stirred, moving some to draw their weapons and there was strife now between the Prince, his supporters and those who objected. _'At least kill the wolf! The blood of our kin is on it!_ ' Legolas wished his father was here. One word from the Elvenking and every elfheart would tremble. Alas, he was not here.

Bard supplied to Legolas that the young man was indeed the bastard son of a Stark lord, Jon Snow was his name.

And then Legolas gave a great speech, one similar to what he had heard his father give when they moved further north. “ _Mellyn nin_! Why do we choose to fight a battle that is not ours to fight? Are we not all kin to one another, some from beyond the Deep and others from the Gray Land beyond the Mountains? Before we take a life, we must first defend our own. Including from ourselves!” and seeing that the whole host of elves and men listened to him, he continued, saying, “We must not forget that we are guests! Partakers of their food and land! We do not shed blood unless to defend. Aye, the shadow does not end. We have seen it. Let the young man and his wolf live, I say, if only to see his kin fall!” and when he ended, there was a deafening applause from both elf and man and everyone heeded his words. Hearts were stilled for a time being.

 

-

 

It was not before long that shadows arose again, this time from the north. A volley of metal arrows came thundering down against cloth and snow, accompanied by a deafening howl before the brandishing of metal could be heard.

The Starks had come for their own. With them came also the banner of House Targaryen, a banner long since forgotten. Legolas cursed himself for not having known that the Dragonlings would still be in this land before giving the command to defend the Wall. Every elf moved south, abandoning their camps and headed to defend the gates. Their hearts now united with one cause.

It was in that hour that the Elvenking came with his host, unbarred and without a banner to slow them down. The girdles of every elf then glowed purple and Amastel shouted _“Daro! Daro!_ ” for he saw the number of the enemy was more than two thousand strong, of more than half were mounted Direwolves while others were fierce Targaryen warriors, their red banner unmistakable.

Their own five hundred was certainly not enough and Thranduil prayed in his heart that Tauriel would come back quickly with added strength. His ears strained and he listened to the cries of men and wolf and elf, but he found only one that was _his_. Thranduil heard it come from the shadow of the Wall; Bard shouting, “Defend the Wall! Defend the Wall! Let them have the bastard of Winterfell! Do not accord any of them cross into the south! Nay! Die here we must, should we need to bury them with us under the Wall!” and at that Thranduil had panicked slightly. He composed himself and held up five fingers, closed it into the fist and swung it towards the Wall.

Then, as if an invisible hand had guided them, the whole host of five hundred ran at full speed towards the Wall, following the eastern shore. The archers that flanked the warriors now ran within their ranks and five by five they broke into groups, with three warriors and two archers in each. It was a defensive formation as all knew in that moment the will of their king.

It was by magic that the realm was guarded and by magic again shall it be saved.

All elves' eyes within the Wall saw their king and were renewed with great strength and they fought back their foes fiercely. Obsidian clashed with metal and blood flowed like river, painting the black Castle red. The number of the brothers dwindled fast, for it was long since they fought against both Targaryen and Stark, and some had given up. The faith of men this day ran truly thin.

It was a thousand against two thousand. The odds were against the virtuous but Bard was not dismayed. Every beast or men that were not their own was slain as Bard stood his ground at the middle gate. He was surrounded by what loyal men were left while Legolas' host guarded the other two gates. Haldir and the duelists were with Fuinvor, having found each other and they too were fighting with their lives on the line. They were spread thin and Bard was thankful that Thranduil had acted upon his words and now came with aid.

It was truly like the War of Feanor again. The Starks and Targaryen sandwiched, but this time the weaker force lay in the south. If they could just get past the thinned defence, they would be in warmer and wider ground. They could meet with their remnants at Twin's Ruins that lay leagues away in the east. Then, they planned to camp at Dale once more, making it their stronghold before sacking King's Landing. Yes! Towards the Wall they marched with their full strength now, ignoring their kin who were being slaughtered by the Elvenking's host in the back. The south, the south.....

 

-

 

“Damn this!” Jon cursed as he grabbed his wounded left shoulder. The obsidian blade that cut him was sharp and the bleeding would not stop.

After being freed from the cage by a nameless kin, Jon Snow ran quickly away from the fray for his weapon was taken from him when he was caught. He had only his chain mail, tattered coat and Ghost, his direwolf with him. So he ran, not for the south, but to the western border away from the fight where he could get rest and water.

Water he found but rest not for the wound stung when he cleaned it. The bleeding still continued and he was afraid that he would bleed to his death. Ghost sobbed and snuggled against Jon to provide his friend and master with warmth as the night welcomed the winter with open arms.

He rested against Ghost and he thought back on the days before his captivity.

He was a bastard of only twenty five years with nothing to claim. The only way he sought recognition was in his prowess in battle. It was not much but his father had always encouraged him. _'Do not fear what they call you. Heed only what I call you. You are my son._ ' his late father, lord Eddard Stark had said before he went away on a small boat with a few others, sailing across the waters south east. It was the quickest way out of the north but the waters were treacherous for the power of the gods seemed to be woven in them. What usable materials from the elven ruins they salvaged could only make a small boat to ferry ten. It was all they could manage for everything else was made into armor and weapon.

That was ten years ago when he last saw his father. News came that their company was assaulted and killed north of the ruins of Dale. Jon and the others knew for certain, it was king Robert's doing.

So he had volunteered to be fodder, to lead a mere twelve riders to the Wall as distraction while his kin followed behind. He had let himself be caught for he did not leave as soon as the way was cleared but he had stayed to usher his people through the narrow gate.

When he was caught, not a word he had spoken of the plans, nor of the Targaryens who were with the Starks. But, the Lord Commander had spoken much to him. Maybe it was because Jon looked young that Thorin had taken pity on him. Jon could scarcely care for the reason as long as there was someone who paid heed to him, alone in the cage. If a knife pointed at his heart now, he would be quick to admit that he looked forward to the one-sided talks from the Lord Commander.

Thorin seemed to be genuinely kindhearted. His words were full of wisdom and he was never hasty nor was he ever angered by Jon's silence. He had even joked and laughed at himself.

And then the day came when Thorin told Jon what lord Eddard Stark and his company had done to deserve their deaths, oh god, Jon cried that night silently when Thorin left him to himself. He sobbed and prayed that it was not true.

But somehow, he knew in his heart that Thorin would not lie to him. He had no reason to, Jon had proved that much with his unending silence.

Jon cried not for the three children who had lost both their parents ten years ago, but for his own unrelenting stupidity that he believed his father to be the most honorable. Ten years ago that night his father had told him that he would earn a way to bring all of them to the warm south. He did not know then what his father meant by 'earn' but oh, two nights ago he learned just what his father did to earn the gold needed to build sturdy ships.

The lord Eddard Stark, along with nine other Northmen had ambushed and murdered the then king and queen of Westeros while they were visiting the ruins of Dale. For what purpose did Cersei and Robert have with the smothered city, Thorin did not tell.

The morning after that, Thorin had come again, having rose earlier than the rest with breakfast in hand. Jon ate in silence then, his eyes red from crying and Thorin could see it. Then, the Lord Commander had spoken the kindest words anyone had given to a bastard like him,

“ _Jon, you weep because your heart is not like the others. For what purpose do you suppose you have in this three thousand year old conflict? Those times are passed, Jon Snow. Many children lost their parents then and beings who were not destined to die had their life cut from them, all because the wayward dragons desire a throne that was not theirs to claim. Pups have no business meddling with Dragons, Jon Snow. You do not desire war though you trained for it. You do not desire revenge though you seek it. Your heart is kinder than you think, Jon Snow. And the world has much need for kindness such as yours in these perilous times._ ” Ghost then had whined, seemingly to agree with Thorin.

What hope now was there for Jon, now that any effort of reconciliation has been brought to ruin?

 

-

 

The battlefield was pungent and bitter with the blackened blood of wolf and man and elf. Thranduil's host slaughtered many for their enemies seemed not to mind their backs, determined to get pass the weaker defense at the gates. Still, the elves and men were greatly outnumbered and there seemed no end to the wretched howls. The Elvenking himself sprinted from his own host to meet with Bard at the middle gate, all while swinging his duel swords with ferocity.

Then, a horn of yore sounded just as two flask of poisoned fire smashed itself against the winter walls, causing all hearts to falter for a moment. Thranduil, however, was in his own world for the horn was one that he had not heard in a long long time.

There upon the northern border, in the dead of night, came the one banner that set a light the shadow in the dark. A single white beech tree on a field of blue, hoisted by the only one with the right to hold it – the herald of the former king Oropher, Fael. Thranduil himself had no herald for his season of war had since long pass, until now. The title remained with Fael for none had succeeded him and Oropher would suffer no other beside him, not even his own son.

Fael, with Oropher, was at the head of a host of some nine hundred strong, for some of the duelists insisted on following.

Fael stuck the banner into the snow, then the host split into two sides, four hundred and fifty each.

Oropher alone was on horseback and his voice boomed and trembled the hearts of every living thing. From the end of his host to end of the Wall, all heard his devastating voice;

“LET EVERY FELL BEAST AND WRETCH KNOW THE MIGHT OF THE ELVES THIS NIGHT AND EVERY NIGHT HENCEFORTH! TO ARMS! TO ARMS! CHILDREN OF ILLUVATAR!”

His voice boomed with such power that the earth beneath every standing being shook and trembled. The sturdy elves held their footing while the wolf and men faltered. Thus Oropher led the charge and elves were strengthened and renewed with vigor. The Targaryens found themselves in a tougher situation than they had expected. Their remnants came together and lobbed a heavy sack, containing ten fell flasks.

One muttered, with his head bowed, “May the spirit of Ancalagon find us and keep us. Long live the House of Fire.”

The wall above the middle gate exploded with fire and death. Massive chunks of ice and stone came tumbling down, ready to crash the defenders. The gate cracked and bent beneath the weight of the explosion. Some of the Starks jumped back while Thranduil threw himself against Bard, knocking him a few feet away from where the ice would have taken their lives and love.

However, all was not entirely well for Thranduil's left shin was caught under the stone. He had concentrated his strength in his arms to push Bard away and had neglected himself.

“Thranduil!” Bard shouted and crawled his way to where the Elvenking laid face down and bent with excruciating pain. All around them, the enemy scrambled to climb up the wreckage and out into the south, paying little to no heed to the fighting. Elves and men from all sides converged on the middle gate, arrows found their mark and the virtuous did all they could to reduce the numbers that made south.

Fuinvor and Haldir rushed to Bard's aid in taking one injured Thranduil safely away from the fight. They trusted Bard to attend to the king before flinging themselves back into battle.

Legolas was torn as he strained his eyes, making out that his father was screaming and writhing in pain as Bard tried to tear away soiled leggings. He soon ran out of arrows and unsheathed a black obsidian scimitar, hacking away. The remaining brothers of the Night's Watch scrambled south and put themselves as a wall formation, impeding the enemy's escape as best they could as both two and four legged beings decreased in numbers.

Oropher, being fast and one of the few who still held ancient magic, unsheathed his long cleaver from his back and held the hilt against his forehead. He closed his eyes for a few seconds as his horse brought him nearer to where the hole lay in the Wall. With a terrible voice he shouted, “ **No more shall pass!** ” His visage shown and a force field of light emerged from his being, blinding all and halting movements. Man, beast and elf fell down with a cry and moved no more. He aimed his cleaver high above the gap, for the Wall was legendarily high and much of it was still intact. With a fell shout, thunder came down from the heavens and struck the center piece.

An avalanche of ice and stone fell upon the enemy and the brothers who were paralyzed with fear. Their deaths were swift and silent. Anyone who wished to venture to the south now found a mountain for them to climb.

As the last of the wreckage settled itself on a mountain that stood only a few meters shorter than the intact Wall, the elves recovered from their shock and stood. The wolf whined pathetically and men held their heads which were ringing with pain. Oropher breathed heavily and smirked in triumph. He tilted his head and every elf pointed their sword and bow against the wolves and men who were left, be they enemy or a brother of the Night's Watch. They were like sheep, crowded together for ease of herding, in the middle of a field.

Bard watched on from the sides as Thranduil looked at all that happened with great effort while keeping awake. His heart thumped in his chest for he dreaded what would come next.

Oropher turned his horse and he looked at a weakened Thranduil with the human beside him. Oropher's mouth parted slightly and he swallowed. Bard could not hold the sire's gaze for more than a second and he looked away, feeling threatened. Oropher just stared, whether in disbelief or in disdain, none would venture a guess.

Oropher did not look away from Thranduil when he said, “Kill them. Every last one of them.”

“No!” Bard shouted and tried to pry himself away from Thranduil's grab but Thranduil did not let go.

“Don't...” Thranduil whispered before he fainted.

Bard did not understand why Thranduil would not allow Bard to save his own brothers. Not all men were enemies there.

Then, the sheeps were slaughtered.

 

 

* * *

 _Daro_ (sindarin) – Halt.

 _Mellyn nin_ (sindarin) – My friends (plural).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I fully apologise for any bad writing in this chapter because this is my first time writing big scale fights/action scenes.
> 
> I appreciate any and all feedback :) Thanks again!
> 
> P.S. Please tell me what you think of Oropher?


	8. Interlude I - The War of Feanor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first interlude (of many, I presume?) in this story.
> 
> Interludes here work as part of the history of the story and does not continue from the present. This interlude in particular, details the War of Feanor before the building of the Wall. It should shed some light on some things that were or are going to be mentioned in the next few chapters.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! The next few chapters from this one are going to be quite heavy with content and there may be more interludes to reveal some of the history :).

[Final Map of the lands in the North](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction) |  **[Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

  
  


3,000 years ago – Thranduil with his wife and son, Legolas, was at Rivendell for a social visit. He stayed there for a hundred years and learned the healing arts from Lord Elrond.

The settlement of Rivendell was founded almost two thousand years ago when the first King of the Noldor, Finwe, desired to show the landscape of the north and the narrow stream that ran across the land from west to east to his sons. Small love for the wild and the sea did Feanor had but his two younger half-brothers longed to stay within the lush greenery. Finwe then had given leave to Fingolfin and Finarfin to settle down here, and to establish a hideaway of peace, study and tranquility for whichever elf or man who were willing to abode with them.

Finarfin went back to Doriath after a hundred years to announce that the settlement was largely built. He spoke of the splendor and the gentleness of the sea and many latched onto his words. Of those that went with him, few came back. Feanor had been quick to offer the new realm his defenses but Finarfin had reasoned that there was no need. The mountain ranges in the south shields their haven while the only city close to them was a walled up and isolated fortress. The woods in the north were also a natural defense from the sea. Finarfin had urged Feanor to visit for he boasted that when the light was strong enough, Finarfin could see the eastern shore of their kin that dwelled in the Fist. Had Feanor furthered his persuasion, the fate of his sons may have been very different.

War ensued not long after Thranduil's hundredth year stay. The Starks began abducting the elves from Rivendell and used their magic to breed direwolves. Fingolfin and Finarfin led a small unit in hopes of rescue but they too landed in the hands of the Starks. When king Finwe got news of their peril, he fell into a deep sleep, never to wake again.

Five battalions, numbering five thousand direwolves and armored riders made for the south to claim the Iron Throne. They were in cahoots with Targaryen traitors who wanted to usurp Daeron II Targaryen's rule.

The march was stopped by the Noldorin stronghold of Doriath (now called the Twin Ruins). The hastily crowned King of the Noldor had received word of the abduction and news of war from his brethren at Rivendell, and assembled his full strength of seven thousand (a thousand for each son he had) to stop the invasion.

Feanor and his seven sons managed to push the Starks back but when all seemed to go well, three dragons flew from the east, led by Ancalagon the Black – the biggest of it's kind - with Daemon Blackfyre and one thousand archers on it's back, the bastard brother of Daeron II and self-proclaimed heir to the Iron Throne.

He was flanked on the right by his half-brother, Aegor Rivers who took with him five hundred archers and on the left by his first son, Aegon Blackfyre with another five hundred archers. On the ground below them were cavalries in the thousands, led by Aegon's twin Aemon Blackfyre.

Lord Elrond, the regent back in Rivendell convened a quick council with his western visitors. Rivendell was scarcely a stronghold, they could not fight the forces of both Winterfell and House Targaryen. Lord Elrond foresighted that Doriath would stop the march of Winterfell and they needed assistance that Rivendell could not provide.

Having heard of the coming of Dragons and a massive host from the rebels, Thranduil rode atop one of Manwe's eagles and made haste back to the Fist. His father, Oropher, assembled his full strength though reluctant and he sent one thousand warriors across the sea first as his host waited impatiently for the other fleets of Rivendell to arrive. The war had come too soon and sudden for anyone to do anything swiftly.

In the south, the dragons smote Doriath. The youngest twins of Feanor were urged by their eldest brother, Maedhros, to turn back into Doriath and defend the ruins from the oncoming cavalry and archers. Thus began the sundering of Feanor's seven sons.

As the host of Oropher arrived at Rivendell by sea, Thranduil took his father on the back of the eagle, coming back to Rivendell only to find that his wife had led their first thousand into battle with Legolas in tow. Oropher urged his son to join his wife while he briefed the rest of his troops.

The Starks found themselves sandwiched. The Noldor in front of them and the host from Rivendell behind them. Seeing that the battle against the rear would be much easier, and that the Targaryens were doing their work in the southern region, the Starks turned back to face the much meager Elven host. The initial reclamation of the throne now sidelined by ruthless slaughter and easy victories.

Feanor saw that the Starks were retreating. He and his five remaining sons were at a loss of what to do. Give the chase or defend Doriath? Both must be done and Feanor did the unthinkable. He only took Maedhros with him, much to the eldest's protest. Maedhros loathed to be apart from his brothers any longer than he needed to, especially when his dearest younger brothers were going to defend their home.

Feanor counseled him while Maedhros stared at the retreating backs of his brothers' host. Ancalagon the Black left the two other dragons and flew north towards the host of Rivendell, still carrying a thousand archers on its back. Feanor urged Maedhros that they had to defend the realm, not just their home. And the realm included their kin. Maedhros cried and hugged his father as they marched north, turning away from Doriath that would soon be completely ruined.

The magic of the elves proved its might as they erected a barrier against the fire of Ancalagon. Legolas was restless as he saw the Starks coming nearer and nearer. He let out a battle cry and led five hundred out of the barrier before his mother could stop him. They met and fought against the Starks. The Noldor fell the direwolves from the rear.

Legolas' mother shouted and left the barrier soon after, vastly decreasing it's strength. The remaining five hundred of Oropher's host were at a loss. Their barrier notwithstanding any longer, they drew their swords and bows to fight the thousand archers who had came on the ground from Ancalagon's back.

Oropher arrived with five thousand of his warriors in tow, marking Ancalagon as his only target. He knew well that the dragon must be slain or everything else would be for naught. With a heavy heart, he sent his army onward to act as distraction and he hoped his son, daughter-in-law and grandson was doing well.

Oropher amassed his full strength and called on the power of the Valar. He cried out in pain as he drained his ten thousand years of divination, condensed it into a single dense column and sliced Ancalagon between its eyes. As the bodies of Ancalagon fell into the sea, Daemon Blackfyre fell with it and drowned. The two bodies cracked a small part of the lands as they fell, birthing two small islands east of Dire Landing, now named the Flare Isle for the fire that destroyed Doriath and Sunderland for the division of Feanor's seven sons.

Alone and depleted, Oropher felt his life force going out from him as he collapsed

Elsewhere, when the Targaryen army saw the falling of Ancalagon, they were drastically demoralized Even so, they abandoned the now ruined Doriath for the young princes that came back were defeated and dead, and met the charge from the four sons of Feanor. Two dragons breathed columns of fire between their enemies as the Targaryen host trampled on the elves, having the advantage as they were on horseback.

Feanor and Maedhros' host were fighting a losing battle and the dread behind them grew. The direwolves tore through the thin armor of the Elven host easily, their numbers not seeming to dwindle while the elves fell by the hundreds. Many a times, Maedhros' wanted to turn back to his brothers for he could feel the fire and light coming from his back and could not forget it.

Feanor looked back and front. Both sides torn, his sons divided and the elven host depleting fast at the onslaught of the Starks and Targaryens. He grabbed Maedhros and dragged him behind his host. Maedhros was dumbfounded, were they going back to Doriath so quickly?

Feanor pulled his son away from the battle and headed towards the east, the Starks now further north away from him. They had to devise a plan so that if all else failed, the Starks cannot be allowed to set foot on the south for Feanor feared that the bloodshed would not end with the death of three dragons.

Maedhros knew as much and the falling of Ancalagon had hinted that someone, who could only be Oropher, had summoned the forbidden wrath of the Valar. They could do the same as well but it would be the last and only time they could. If they had to give their lives to ensure the survival of the realm and in defense of the Iron Throne, they would.

Feanor, skilled in the offensive arts and Maedhros, skilled in the defensive arts, set out to split the lands and guard the north side with an everlasting enchantment. However, before Feanor could do anything, he saw that a host of cavalry, holding the banner of Daeron II, cross his sight and into the fray.

With a hand on his heart, Feanor bade his son farewell as Maedhros ran north.

Then, as if a thunder from the skies had cracked the lands, the earth beneath the battle trembled and split, falling every kind, man and beast, into the sea beneath. On the other northern side, Maedhros stretched his magic and called upon the Valar to aid his quest as he shielded the northern border of the torn land so that no elf, man or beast could ever cross into the southern realm. Thus born Feanor's Divide and Maedhros’ Amulet, everlasting and never ceasing. They did not survive as Aegon and Aegor steered their dragons towards them before being shot down by the Elves. falling into the opening.

Most of the Starks' host, being in the middle of the battle, fell into the divide. Seeing this, the banners of Daemon II stopped in their tracks and turned back to defend Doriath from the remaining Targaryens.

The Elven host tumbled back in shock. But the odds were now in their favor and they fought what remained of the Targaryen's host and the direwolves.

That day, the battle was named the War of Feanor in remembrance of his deed.

The Stark's host retreated to Winterfell and the Elven host, weary and unwilling to lose more of their kin, returned to Rivendell's ships. A handful of the Starks had escaped from the battle and were hiding in the Twin Ruins (Doriath now fallen) to regrow their strength, scavenging from the fallen banners of Daeron II.

Thranduil took Oropher's limp form and flew back to the Fist, bidding the eagle farewell. A fourth of their host had survived, they came back weary but victorious. As Oropher slept to heal, Thranduil was crowned King of the Woodland Realm, succeeding his father. Legolas had came back with the host, his mother not with him. When Oropher came to, he never forgot the horror of men.

There was a huge iceberg then, that seated itself in the middle of Ulmo's Deep. Stories say that it was the tear of Manwe, frozen in remembrance of the tragedy. Further north, the Gale Mountains wailed and harsh winters were on the land forever.

It was only a few years of peace and recovery before the Starks of Winterfell arrived on the eastern shore of the Fist, now Dire Landing, after they had sacked the Elvendom of Rivendell. Legolas wanted to fight them off their land but Thranduil thought better and moved his people northward behind Tenerywood.

The Wall was then built to defend the realm against the threat in the North.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this when I was doing chapter three or so. It was supposed to be just a time line but I found myself unable to stop. So, I wrote and wrote and wrote. Edited as I went along the subsequent chapters.
> 
> The next few chapters in the present timeline does have a fair bit of history-dropping in it so I hope this interlude serves as a refresher of sorts :P I don't necessarily think this was very well written though. When I wrote this while the first draft of the map sat beside me, my mind was shocked by the obscene imagery of the war and my vocabulary might have stumbled :P Anyway, I just needed to vomit out all the info in my head and here we are. I hope this was okay and I would love to hear your thoughts. Thank you for reading once again!
> 
> The final map on top will be the last one, no more updates. I guess I should start drawing the map to the south and east soon :).


	9. Dangerous Waters

**[Final Map of the lands in the North](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction)**   **|**   **[Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

 

When Thorin led thirty brothers back into the Wall by way of the eastern gate, he was not sure what situation met him. The moon was now high in the darkened sky and his head was still ringing and there was a stagger in his footsteps, as were the same with his men. They were groaning and rubbing their scalp, some brushing off pieces of ice and stone from their shoulders. Thankfully, Thorin thought, that he had the mind to command his men to stand back when he saw the light from the Elf, which he presumed was the benevolent king that sent prince Legolas and Bard's escorts.

It was almost midnight but none slept. He could smell fire and bone, and see files of smoke rising from the borders. He presumed that the bodies of the dead were burned. He only hoped that the elves salvaged whatever they could, for life in the north was unrelenting and harsh. Assistance did come from King's Landing once in awhile but with the recent reports of citizens being robbed and waylaid while traveling, King Joffrey could scarcely spend too much resources on a threat that was so far from his capital.

Thorin racked his head as the ringing stopped and the pain subsided. _'Do Elves have two kings?_ ' he thought to himself silently as he and his men went into the feasting hall for rest and food. He was quite sure the Elf on horseback was the king, for he had been so powerful and regal, while the one who came before might have been Legolas' elder brother or something. Thorin shook his head as he and his men sat down on the benches nearest to the left. _'But he is the crown Prince, isn't he? Or is the magic still messing with my head?'_

The elves in the feasting hall eyed them hesitantly and stayed away from them. Thorin could feel it and he looked around, feeling strange. “There are only elves here..” He heard one of his brothers mutter. “Where are our men?” another mentioned.

Thorin looked down and contemplated his hands, “Stay here.” he ordered and his men nodded.

Thorin scanned the crowd in the hall for a head of blonde but all he could see were reds, browns and black, with some still having their silver helmet on. He bit his lips and went out, closing the door behind him softly.

There were no men.

No Stark, no Targaryen and no brother. None.

Panic began to rise within him, though he knew not why. He felt a little nauseous as he walked around, stopping some of the elves to ask them where was prince Legolas or where was their king, for indeed he wanted to thank them and sought information of what has happened after the center Wall came down.

The elves shrugged him off and eyed him with distaste. He did not understand. Did they not speak the common tongue or was that hate in their disposition? Thorin hoped that it was the former.

He saw a she-elf come out from one of the recovery huts and went to intercept her. “Pardon me, Miss.” he said, trying not to sound too anxious or rough.

Tauriel gasped and looked around quickly, her eyes falling upon Oropher who just went into the feasting hall. Thorin was about to speak again before Tauriel pulled him into the hut. “Come quickly!” she said.

Thorin was relieved and surprised when the she-elf pulled him with strength that he had not known was possible in females.

The hut was scarcely decorated but it had a small fire place and a comfortable bed with medical supplies neatly arranged on two shelves.

“Bard?” He asked.

The man slouching beside the bed turned and nodded with a grim expression.

Thorin turned to the she-elf, “I wish to speak to your king or to prince Legolas, might you know where I can find them? I am the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Thorin is my name.” and he bowed respectfully.

Tauriel bowed as well, while eyeing Thranduil, who was unconscious on the bed and Bard holding his hand tightly. “Tauriel is I.” she cleared his throat, unsure how much to tell the human. “I do not think it is wise for you to be out there right now, lord Thorin.”

“Do you know what has happened?” he asked, “I was on the other side of the Wall when it came down. Where are my men? Are they all dead?” Panic and bile stirring in his guts.

Tauriel nodded. It was the truth, after all.

“No... How did it happen? Didn't your king surround the enemy after the fall? I saw it! How could my men have died when even the enemy was indisposed after the light happened?!”

Tauriel hesitated but Bard stood and turned towards Thorin. “That was not their king though he ordered every men and wolf to be slaughtered like pigs. Including our own.” His voice tight and mannerism slow as he was in pain.

Thorin furrowed his brows and rage consumed him. “What?! Then where is your king! I will speak to him! I demand to speak to your king now!” he shouted at Tauriel.

Bard walked towards Thorin with a limp for his right side was sore and aching. “The king is there.” he motioned towards the sleeping form with a bandaged leg on the bed.

Thorin shook his head and suddenly remembered that his men was in the feasting hall, likely dead by now. “No, no, no! Then who was that?! I have to go!” he moved to exit but Tauriel grabbed him saying,

“No! You can't! I cannot guarantee your safety!”

“The murderer is the king's father. He proclaimed himself the regent not too long ago, after he ordered the bodies to be salvaged and burned.” Bard provided and he went to sit with Thranduil again, massaging his own shoulders before holding Thranduil's cold hands. He himself had no space in his mind to care about the current political situation nor the absurdity of murder. His mind could not process anything other than the unconscious being in front of him. Everything else paled in comparison.

“Shit!” Thorin cursed. “My men whom followed me back are in the feasting hall! They could be dead by now!”

“Oh no.” Tauriel gasped with a hand on her mouth. “The lord Oropher is in there...”

“No.” Thorin's eyes grew wide and he pulled himself free from Tauriel's hold, charging out of the hut. Tauriel ran after him, with them went Haldir and Fuinvor who saw their distress and could only guess what happened. Fuinvor ran ahead of Haldir, fearing for Thorin's life and safety.

 

-

 

When Oropher came into the feasting hall, he had not imagined that there were still men alive, save the one with Thranduil. He eyed the thirty men sitting huddled together over some food in the left corner and licked his lips, deciding to ignore them for now.

He had sent Fael with all the duelists that had come with them back to Dire Landing. Fael was tasked with tearing down the strait and getting resources back to the Keep and thereafter, lead some healers and medical assets to the Wall. A hundred went with Fael. It was both a plan to reclaim the lands in the north and a ploy to keep the majority of the prince's supporters away from Legolas.

Oropher sat to the right, joining much of his host, and partook in the food and chatter. His elves smiled brightly, as if it was _just another day_. Their hearts were immensely gladdened that their first king was back with them, in body and soul.

It was sometime after that Thorin had burst into the feasting hall with a loud bang of the doors, causing every eye to fall upon him, and the entourage that came with him – Tauriel, Haldir and Fuinvor.

Thorin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his men were okay, though they cast him strange glances, unaware of the news. He then looked around to find blonde hair and he saw – waves of silver-blond and the distinct black armor that was different from his army. That must be lord Oropher, Thorin thought.

“You!” he spoke, pointing an accusatory finger and stepping closer. “You are Oropher, aren't you?!” as Thorin drew closer, the elves at the regent's table stood, a hand on the hilt of their obsidian long swords. “You murderer of the innocent, slayer of friends!”

Oropher held up a hand and the elves sat down, their eyes hard on the Lord Commander. Oropher stood up, his black armor menacing, and faced Thorin. His eyes looked from left to right and he scowled, masking the betrayal he felt.

 

-

 

“Ah! Tsk...” Bard doubled over as he clutched his right side. He had thought that Thranduil merely gave him a simple push but once the shock of it all had gone, Bard came to the realization that it might not have been just a simple push after all. His right arm and shoulders felt like they on fire. The chill of the room and toughness of his leather armor not helping one bit. He had wanted to take off his clothing to check just how bad his right side was but resources were scarce as it is and he feared the extent of the wound.

A knock came, “Bard?”

He recognized it as Tauriel, “Yea, come in!” Bard strained his voice.

Tauriel came in and closed the door after checking that no one followed her. “You sound worse each time. Are you sure you are alright?” Tauriel asked and came to stand beside Bard and set a tray down. Bard spared the tray a look and felt his stomach growl as the smell of freshly baked bread and hot milk filled the small hut.

“I am-” Bard coughed, “Quite fine, Tauriel.”

Tauriel did not believe him but she did not want to push him to talk, “Should you not be with your Lord Commander?”

Bard looked up to her, suddenly alert and concerned, as if just remembering that the world was not just Thranduil. “Are the remaining brothers alright?”

Tauriel nodded, though without a smile. “They are fighting now, I expect, with words and shouting.”

Bard was unexpectedly confused and he shook his head. “Forgive me, but who and who?”

“Thorin and our lord, Oropher. They are having a shouting match. Thorin called him a pig, last I heard before I came here.”

Bard sighed, “Just like him...”

“Bard...” Tauriel hesitated and Bard looked at her questioningly. “There is a bruise forming at the base of your neck! You should let me have a look.”

Bard sighed again. He did not have the effort to worry about himself. Thranduil was unconscious, his ruthless father was taking charge and the crown's defenders grows thin. Adding to that, Legolas has not visited Thranduil. Bard's not sure if Legolas even knows where Thranduil was. The only people who were privy to Thranduil's location was Tauriel, Haldir, Fuinvor, Galion, Thorin and himself. Bard does not know who the elves were hiding Thranduil from but he has half a mind to believe that it was Oropher.

Bard resigned to Tauriel's insistent and took off his coat, followed by his armor and chain. The cold bit his skin and Tauriel gasped.

Bard's right shoulder was bruised in black and purple, and the bruise was spreading to the right side of his chest and going towards his neck. _'Just how much force did he use?!_ ' Bard though to himself.

Tauriel hastily prepared a concoction using some ginger root from the shelf and the warm milk from the tray. It was not much without any healing magic, but it would help the blood to circulate better, thereby slowing the spread of the bruise.

Bard winced as Tauriel massaged the paste and wrapped his neck and upper right shoulder in bandages. Bard put on his coat again, leaving the plate armor and chain mail aside.

He looked at Thranduil again and he could not fathom why this has happened. “How could a leg injury cause him to lose consciousness? Is this an elven physique thing?”

Tauriel contemplated for awhile and an idea came into her head. “I believe he channeled his power into his arms to push you out of harm's way, which is why the injury is taking such a toll on him and why your right side is the way it is. But there has to be something else pulling him away from the corporeal realm.... He is one of our strongest elves, this should not be that big of a problem for him...”

“Can magic help him? Can you heal him?” Bard asked in desperation.

Tauriel shook her head. “He can heal himself if he could just wake up.” she stated. “Not every one of us have trained in the arts of magic. Mostly the elves from Rivendell or the elves of yore who came from the Gray Land beyond the mountains have awoken their sense for magic and trained in the arts.... In which the lord Oropher is one of them.”

Bard rolled his eyes and his jaw tightened. He has no idea of any Gray Land but he shook that thought from his mind for now. There was no way he would let that murderer anywhere near a weakened Thranduil. In Bard's eyes, Oropher had stolen Thranduil's kingship and he was afraid what else the sire would take away from Thranduil. “Could you gather some of the elves from Rivendell? Would they help?”

“I'm afraid that the only elf from Rivendell that remains is Haldir. The others have left with Fael back into the north on Oropher's command.”

_'Damn that bastard!_ ' Bard cursed in his mind.

“I will seek Haldir and bring him here.” Tauriel put a reassuring hand on Bard's left shoulder, “Keep safe until I come back.”

Bard nodded and she went out swiftly.

 

-

 

The shouting got to the worst part, with both parties' blood running hot with anger, taking the deaths of their own upon themselves. Tears were falling down Thorin Oakenshield's face for his eldest nephew was among those slain unjustly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the younger with his head down and shoulders shuddering, probably weeping.

When that information came out, Oropher turned his back for a slight moment and there was deafening silence in the room. His elves looked at him and he stared back at them. Their shoulders, once squared now retreated into a slouch as they looked down when their regent met their eyes. _Was it guilt? Was this.... the other side of victory? Has the joy now all but spent_? Oropher looked at the defeat before him and his eyes twitched. One by one, the elves sat down but did not touch their food nor drink their mead. They sat with a soft thump, head bowed and eyes closed, in mourning. The shadow retreated as suddenly as it came up and all knew that they did wrong by their allies when they had slain twenty of them alongside the enemies.

Oropher looked at them and in that hour, he wished that Fael was with him.

Thorin sniffled and Oropher turned back, without a response nor a retort. His vocabulary all but spent and the only thought that flooded his mind was the state of his own son. Did he perish from a wound or was he abducted by _that human_? He could only shake his head at that thought and roll his eyes, forgetting that he had distraught company for one minute second. Thorin took his expression as a sign of disregard and spat on the floor, causing Oropher to look at him with a stunned expression, as if he was just pulled back to reality and he suddenly remembered himself.

“Your son would be better off dead with you! Murderous scum!”

That was the last thing he heard when Oropher frowned, pushing pass Thorin with a force that caused the Lord Commander to stumble. Some elves followed after their lord in haste.

Unfortunately for Tauriel, who was just going to the feasting hall to retrieve Haldir in hopes that he could imbue some sort of magic to aid the king, found herself in the way of a very angry Oropher. She had the misfortune of looking at the Elf in the eye with great dread.

“You!” Oropher pointed an accusatory finger at Tauriel, whom he saw briefly through the orb, when she returned alone and with a desperate expression. Tauriel stopped and squared herself, unwilling to show any sign of submission while holding the sire's gaze. “Where is the king?!” He all but shouted at her. It seems his out lash on the innocent was all too familiar and every elf around them stopped to look at the commotion, not with wonder in their eyes, but with pity for the unfortunate victim of the first king.

Tauriel boldly raked him over with her eyes and thus raising her eyebrows, silently saying, _ain't that you?_

That did not go unnoticed by Oropher. His lips tightened, his eyes blinked and he shook his head scoldingly. He, an elf who was twenty times her age, would never have suffered her arrogance but he reminded himself that this was an elf who did not know war and have not learned discipline from tragedy. So, he schooled himself and asked in a no less softer tone, “Tauriel, where is Thranduil?” and he returned the stare he got from her, his anger only raising.

Tauriel pouted and Oropher tilted his head questioningly. Tauriel looked away from him and breathed. Oropher then understood that she knew the king's whereabouts but had no intention to tell. His hands played with the hilt of his sword in impatience.

Before he could step forward to do whatever he had in mind to force the information of Tauriel, he was stayed by a hand on his shoulders, pulling him backwards gently. He turned to come face to face with a duelist, whom he remembered vaguely had come from Rivendell as a hostage when he was four hundred and twelve years old.

Tauriel breathed sharply and said in a warning tone, “Haldir....”

Oropher looked back at her for a slight second before he looked to the duelist again, “Haldir?” He asked, not for confirmation of his name, but for news of his own son.

“I can take you to him.” He said, however he moved not.

“But?” Oropher continued for him.

“Surrender your sword to me, my lord, and I shall.” Haldir stepped back and held both his hands out in expectation.

Oropher looked at the young (in his eyes) duelist and a smirk tugged at his lips. “Very well, you shall have the honor of bearing my sword.”

The words held double meaning and Tauriel faltered for a second when Oropher reached for his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we shall find out who or what is keeping Thranduil away from the physical realm.
> 
> Thanks for reading~


	10. The Beginnings of a Hunt

**[Final Map of the lands in the North](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction)**   **|**   **[Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

 

_He found himself standing in the middle of a huge cavernous realm. It was so very dim and so very dark, save the soft glow of light coming from the far side. The floor was flat and smooth, and as brown as the cavern walls. There was a path leading to the light but the whole left side of it was crumbled, as if a weight had plunged and cracked the land. He chanced a look and the abyss below was daunting and it frightened him. Thranduil was not easily frightened but the air of the place told him that he **should** be afraid._

“ _Where is this place?” he muttered out loud._

_**'You know where this place is.'** A voice came into his mind. It was a soft familiar growl, not guttural but low enough. Melodious but not joyful. There seemed a sad song in his head._

_Thranduil took in a sharp breathe and spun around, trying to locate the source of the voice. Behind him was the same rocky brown wall. It was a cave without an entrance... or was the light the entrance?_

… _How did he get here?_

_Last he remembered, he saw his father commanding the slaughter of innocents. Was this his punishment for being powerless to stop it? Were the gods – the Valar – and the powers, punishing him for his father's crime?_

_If it was, Thranduil would fight it, he decided. He would fight the gods, not with swords but with logic and justice. But what justice? There was no justice to be had for the fallen brothers._

_As he walked nearer and nearer to the faint glowing light, a sense of familiarity and kinship flooded his heart and the light grew brighter._

_He exited the light into an empty hall of marble floors. Smooth and clean cut. There were pillars in the color of the somber sky neatly arranged in rows and columns but there was not a soul, save him. The light, Thranduil found, came from above out of shining lamps. They were the same lamps that the Noldor brought with them when they first made the journey to cross over the Gale Mountains. The light of the Sindar was of a different hue. Not blue, but gold and silver. The lamps above were hanging on nothing but it was probably magic that held them there, or the will of the speaker herein._

“ _Who's here?” he called out loud._

_' **I am.'** the voice came again. It was familiar but Thranduil could not pinpoint exactly who he was. But Thranduil knew that he had love for this person, or creature._

_A gust of wind slammed itself against Thranduil and he fell back a few steps, becoming more frightened. This is definitely punishment, he decided. “Please...” he begged, “Forgive me that I do not remember you.”_

“ _ **It pains me so...”** The voice came out of Thranduil's head and from all directions. The creature was here, concealed but definitely here. **“It pains me so that you do not remember me, First-born, you who hath seen the light of Valinor and traversed these very halls in your stumble.”**_

“ _Oh, Valar!” Thranduil blurted out as a faint memory came up in his mind. “It is you, is not it? Lord Namo, called Mandos, keeper and judge of the dead!” Thranduil then fell to his knees with a loud thump that echoed through the halls and back. “Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive my forgetfulness for I am weary with burdens of the world and have repressed the jubilancy of Valinor!” Thranduil kept his head down._

“ _And you need not be.” The voice now came from directly in front. Thranduil looked up and saw Namo, as he always was. The keeper had a head of black hair, kept short and they stood like wild fire but not messy. His side burn was clean cut and two long locks flowed from the back of his ear and reached past his shoulders. The black locks of his hair was weaved with golden tresses. “Rise, Thranduil, son of Oropher.” he commanded in his soft but still terrible voice for the elf was no king here._

_Thranduil rose and he dared not look upon the face of one he betrayed so he found his gaze on the black flowing robes of Namo. He had been in the Halls of Mandos once, when he was but twenty years old and still a playful elfling. His father chased him in their game and he tumbled down a grassland, ending with a thump in another part of the forest. He was drawn by a soft light and came into the cave. There he met this one in front of him. Oropher did not follow him in, for he knew he need not nor was allowed to._

“ _The Valar has word of you father's transgression-”_

“ _Am I here to pay his debt?”_

“ _You are headstrong, as always.” Namo chuckled and the air vibrated about them. “But, no.” The keeper then looked straight into the eyes of his friend of old._

_Thranduil flinched at the sudden and intense gaze and he looked away for a slight moment, “Go on.” he urged, unwilling to stay in silence. The halls were empty and the surging power of Mandos frightened him. It made his heart quiver and his soul tingle. It was as though if he stayed here for a second more than he needed to, he would find no way out._

“ _The Lord of the air hears all and the transgression of your father escapes none.” A gust of wind came from Namo towards Thranduil, and the Vala's black robes parted slightly to reveal the familiar shine of metal._

“ _What has he decreed?” His sight awfully distracted by the armor. Were they going to fight? Thranduil suddenly found himself steeled and ready to defend, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He only has one this time, for some reason._

_Namo eyed Thranduil's reaction with amusement, “The slaying of the innocent in full knowledge and control cannot be overlooked. He must be brought to the feet of Manwe and be judged.” Namo spoke in his authority as the judicial knight of Valinor._

“ _How so?” Thranduil asked and paced slowly in front of the Vala who watched him intently, his hands never leaving the hilt of his sword. The next words were either spoken out of panic or rebellion, Thranduil's not very sure.“When you nor the powers judged the Noldor for their betrayal, nor us for our following? Why then do the Valar now meddle in the affairs of the Eldar, when they have not so?” Thranduil said in defense of Oropher. “Indeed, the Valar did not aid in the terrible War, nor did Orome come with his cavalry, nor Tulkas, the champion, come with leaguer of swords.” Thranduil was hot with wrath as painful memories stirred the shadow within him for if they had met on another occasion, Thranduil would not rebuke the Vala rudely in this manner;_

“ _And what of Manwe? His herald did not come with the Vanyar, who sit at his feet in luxury and peace for eternity. Will you now, Mandos, keeper of the dead, call into court the sins of the aftercomer, who slayed the first-born?” He then stared at Namo with all the fury he could conjure yet he could not find it in his heart to hate this guardian. Thranduil wants nothing more than to flaunt his sword, spew his anger and take his vengeance._

_But Namo did not harden his eyes nor his heart, for he still had love and care for the elfling whom he took in for awhile, and taught. Thranduil had sat at the feet of Mandos for fifty years and learned about the world of Men in all their valor and travesty. Now, the elfling was back here, staring at his own caretaker in childish anger. Namo wants to shake his head but he figured that it would only anger Thranduil more. Patience was key here, he decided._

“ _You know it is not I nor anyone's to judge the doings of the followers.” Namo replied, his voice soft and gentle for he wanted to sound forgiving, though his heart ached at the rudeness from one whom he held dear. “Aye, even Manwe whom Eru decreed as King, does not judge Men, nor can he. It is Illuvatar's only.” Namo walked and stood closer to Thranduil, who was still fuming. “Men have laws, Thranduil. Though they do not hold to them at all times, they judge for themselves, in right and in wrong. Who then shall judge the Eldar, who Manwe has claimed all lordship over before the world was made? Shall Finwe? Or shall Feanor? Or your sire?”_

_And to that, Thranduil had no comeback but he bristled. However, the gentle demeanor of Namo seemed to rub off on him and the waves of his anger seemed to still for a time, so Namo continued. “The Eldar is hailed amongst all to be the fairest and wisest of all beings, yet the crime of Oropher goes unpunished for he has claimed your kingship as you lie sick and indisposed. Yet it is not for the unpunished crime that he is judged, nay. It is for the darkness in his heart and the cause that moved him to assail the innocent.” Namo sighed and closed his eyes for awhile. His tone then changed and he spoke as kin to Thranduil, “You do know that he blames your son for the death of your wife, his daughter-in-law, do you not?”_

“ _That has nothing to do with...! With....” Thranduil could not bring himself to say that his father was a murderer. He just could not. And he suddenly found himself wiping away tears as distant memories of his dear wife came up._

“ _But it does. Do you not see it?” Namo shook his head. “Everyone who caused you suffering will perish under his sword and if not, his misjudgment. He moves not with wisdom but with a dark tainted love.” Namo pulled Thranduil's head towards his shoulders as the elf wept. Namo spoke softly as he held Thranduil in a loving embrace, “Thranduil... You can be free... of all of this... You can be out of his charge and control, if you do a deed for the Valar.”_

_Ah, there it is._

_Thranduil growled and gritted his teeth as he fisted Namo's dark robes and he suppressed his sobs in the most pitiful sound, “You did not stop me, nor him,” Then Thranduil pushed himself away and looked at the Vala with fiery eyes. His face was wet and pinked with tears and anger, “And now you sought to take me away from my own father!” Thranduil shook his head and wiped his face, “You!” He pointed an angry finger, “Dark of heart and manipulator! Calling it 'freeing' but it is for my betrayal of you that you desire for me to betray my father as well!”_

_Thranduil knew he spoke out of haste than wisdom, for Namo was not that kind of person. Thranduil just wanted a reason – any reason - to validate his and his father's decisions. “No! No deed will I do for the Valar! Manwe himself will have to-”_

“ _ **LISTEN!”** Namo's voice boomed and the halls quaked with his fury. Thranduil stood, eyes wide and stunned but silent at last. “It may still be that you can earn the pardon of the Valar, for yourself and your kin. But you must know, that if your soul leave these halls without my favor, doom shall ever be upon your house!”_

_Thranduil stilled when those words came out for the words of Mandos were like a prophecy and a great and terrible dread overwhelmed him. “W-what would you have me do?” he stammered._

“ _First and foremost, the deed of your father must be judged. Oropher must come over the mountains physically. Here we will hold him and Manwe shall order the rest.” He looked towards Thranduil then and was glad that his hand was not on the hilt of his sword any longer._

“ _The Valar will give pardon for the Elves who participated in the Departure and again accept them into Valinor in love and forgiveness. Go forth and gather them, then lead them into the Gale Mountains under the banner of thy house. When the guardians of the mountains see thy banner, a sign shall be set forth and the storms shall calm, a naked path will be laid for the faithful and the repentant. Any who become unwilling shall be fenced out forever and Valinor will be shut against them._

“ _This is the decree of Manwe whom Eru has spoken in his heart. Do you, Thranduil, son of Oropher, hereby be willing to bear this burden and restore the Elves to their place?”_

_Thranduil blinked twice and he inclined his head. It sounded like quite the mission and he scarcely had time to think things through for he wanted to get back to the Wall, to Bard, to Legolas and to his people. Thus he hastily agreed and nodded his head. “I will.”_

“ _Swear it to me.”_

_Thranduil bowed and said, “I, Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Woodland Realm, shall hereby swear to do the decree of Manwe and abide by the will of Illuvatar. I shall forever seek and gather the Eldar so that they may have the pardon of the Valar. On the honor of my house and with the Vala Namo, called Mandos, as my witness, I swear all this in the name of Eru Illuvatar.” then Thranduil knelt on one knee as was the custom of Valinor._

_Namo put a hand on his silver head and chanted a seal in an ancient language that Thranduil did not comprehend. “Now, the oath is formed and shall never be broken by any, save yourself.”_

_And as customary, Thranduil replied, “Doom and woe be unto me till the end of my days should I break this vow in heart or in deed.” He kissed the feet of Namo and rose._

“ _A tether is set between you and the Valar, and your fate is sundered from the fate of the Earth.” Namo put his hand on Thranduil's chest of armor and a bright light grew, “A power I give you on my own accord. May it help you in your quest.” Thranduil felt himself sway as his chest tightened and then relax again almost immediately._

_He faltered and took a step back._

_Suddenly, a bright and golden light came from the entrance and Thranduil felt himself drawn to it._

“ _Oropher is calling you back now.”_

_Thranduil looked back and forth. Before he walked towards the light, he hesitated and asked, “This tether... If I call you in need, will you come?”_

_Namo smiled gently, “If you call me, I will answer.”_

 

* * *

 

The night had gone into the next day yet the elves were busy with the clean up and did not sleep. Thorin and his men stayed awake too, though their bodies were weary and longed to rest. They feared that they may be assailed in their sleep by the elves.

 

Glimpses of light could be seen coming from the east as the sun began it's journey once more.

 

-

 

There were muffled sounds outside the door. It sounded like Haldir conversing with another of a deeper voice which Bard found familiar. When the door clicked open and shut, Bard turned back from his position only to be met by Oropher. He frowned but the sire's gaze was stern without emotion. Bard moved his lips and stood up reluctantly. He gave Oropher a terse nod before walking pass him. As he did so, he could feel Oropher's eyes judging him. His looks, his coat, his limp, his.... everything. He felt naked in the presence of this ancient creature.

Oropher did not return the nod but his eyes appraised the object of his son's affections unabashedly. He took Bard's seat and assessed Thranduil's physique. Aside from the wound on the left leg which was healing quickly, there were no other pains.

Oropher held Thranduil's right palm with his left and closed his eyes. He could feel and see his son's life force being held up by something extraordinarily powerful. Oropher manifested his own will in his son's subconsciousness. 'Come back.' It was not a question nor a reminder, but a command and an attack to push the foreign being out of Thranduil's soul and pull him back to the corporeal plane.

There was a shuffle of sheets as Thranduil writhed in his bed. Oropher pulled back and sat straighter in his seat. Thranduil grunted and groaned. Bard was suddenly beside Oropher and it shocked him that this human was showing such concern towards an elf.

“Thranduil?” Bard tries, as he puts a hand on Thranduil's right leg, massaging the muscle through the leggings. He does not feel Oropher's eyes on him for his heart and mind at this time was occupied by Thranduil only.

Oropher himself could only look at Bard's worry for his son. Oropher was intrigued and fascinated by Bard's extreme emotions. Bard was acting as though Thranduil could be dead any second. Oropher smiles but this was unnoticed. He takes his leave and leaves his son in Bard's care.

“B-Bard...?” The voice is soft but not weak. Thranduil blinks, “Bard! It is you!” Thranduil did not imagine that he would see Bard first when he awoke, for he knew it was Oropher who brought him back. He is secretly relieved that it was Bard though he does not voice his gladness, aware that his father might be near and might overhear his careless words.

“Yes, it is I! Many more are worried about you!” Thranduil pulls Bard into a hug and sends the human crashing down upon him due to the sheer force of his power. He shall find the others later but right now, Bard was more than enough for him. “Oof!!” Bard lets out but he grins. He returns the hug tightly and presses Thranduil into the bed, inhaling his scent of nature and earth. “Thranduil...” Bard whispers as he pulls away reluctantly after awhile. Thranduil looks at him questioningly, silently assessing if he was rushing Bard with his enthusiasm. “We're at the Wall now, we... we have to watch ourselves.” Bard gave him an awkward smile.

Something changed in Bard since he was out, Thranduil could feel it. Was it due to the crime of his father or was this something else? Was this about some human custom of courtship between men? Thranduil was not sure but he hoped that he could do right by him. “Why?” was the only thing he could ask.

Bard stood up and retrieved two scrolls that he had kept with him since he came back to the Wall. He read these two scrolls every minute when he had the time. And everytime he did, he felt miserable and guilty but he loved Thranduil no less. One scroll was sealed with the a black ribbon and fastened with a black button that had the mark of the Night's Watch, a crow. The other was sealed with a white ribbon and fastened with a gold button, bearing the sigil of House Baratheon, the stag.

He then sat down on the bed, holding the two scrolls in his hands, “I wished that I had told you of my oaths before anything could happen between us but I want you to know that my love for you is not diminished.” He passes the scrolls to Thranduil with shivering hands.

Thranduil has a bad feeling about what was written in them if they caused Bard to speak such sad words. He opens them gently and there inscribed in black ink were these:

 

**The Night's Watch**

 

> "Night gathers, and now my watch begins.  
>  It shall not end until my death.  
>  I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.  
>  I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.  
>  I shall live and die at my post.  
>   am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls.  
>  I am the shield that guards the realms of men.  
>  I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch,  
>  for this night and all the nights to come. "

 

**Kingsguard**

 

> “ _This day is set in stone as I commit myself_  
>  to the protection of the King and all whom he commands.  
>  I shall obey him, defend him and honor him.  
>  I will hold no titles, retain no lands, wed no women and sire no children.  
>  I hereby swear that I will obey his words,  
>  counsel on his behest and serve his pleasure.  
>  My honour is his, my will is his and my life is his.  
>  I shall bear and defend his name and honor  
>  from this day henceforth until death sunder me from my duty.”

 

Thranduil stared at the cruel words with blank eyes. “So...” he starts without looking up from the scrolls, his mind not exactly understanding why men had such weird customs. “Are you to remain celibate and without love for the rest of your life?” he looks up now and stares sadly at Bard.

Bard raises a hand to caress Thranduil's fair face which was now stricken with sadness. “I have love. Right here in your eyes is a love that will span ages.” Bard brings their face closer slowly but Thranduil halts him.

“W-wait.” Thranduil wonders if there were more customs of it was taboo to break any oaths. “How old are you?” Thranduil asks and it all but kills the mood.

Bard smiles and rolls his eys. “What is wrong with you, Thranduil Oropherion? Here I am trying to kiss you and you are concerned with that? We have kissed once before!”

“I know we have. But this time, I want to do it right.”

Bard sighs. It seems he was not the only one with rules to live by. “I am thirty-three, your royal highness.”

Thranduil was slightly taken aback. “You are a mere elfling by our standards!” Bard had looked a lot older to him. Maybe a few hundred years old.

Bard laughs heartily, “But I am more than ten years over the age of consent by _our_ standards.” Bard muses on Thranduil's information for awhile. He remembers that Tauriel's seventh hundred year was soon and he gets curious, “How old are _you_ , then?”

Thranduil smirks at Bard's childlike curiosity, “My age is a four digit number. My father's, five.”

Bard was genuinely surprised and he stares at Thranduil with his mouth ajar, “I can hardly believe it! Does every part of you still work or must I _remain celibate for the rest of my life?_ ” He joked and leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows only for Thranduil to smack his chest playfully.

“Of course they work!” They smile blissfully at each other, the tense situation forgotten and then, Thranduil leans forward and their mouths meet, slowly and peacefully. For a moment, the world around them stops. Their troubles forgotten. The wake of the realm forsaken.

 

The door suddenly opens and they push themselves away abruptly. “Father? Oh! Sorry!” Legolas turns around, back facing the pair and slowly closes the door. _'Shit shit shit shit shit..._ ' he chants in his heart. _'WHAT HAVE I SEEN!_ 'his mind explodes within itself and if elves could die from embarrassment, Legolas would be dead right now.

Bard sits back and smiles to himself sheepishly. Thranduil watches his son's trembling back and puts his palm to his face, “Legolas! Stop being so dramatic!”

Legolas sighs and sighs again before he turns around. He stays in his spot and does not come near, “I apologize and shall apologize for the rest of my elven years for my intrusion on this private occasion, my dear father. But have you concerned yourself with _other_ affairs as of late?” There was slight tension in his voice.

Thranduil shook his head as Namo's conversation came up in his mind while Bard answers for him, “He just woke up.”

Legolas nods but his countenance begins to contort in anger as he steps closer to them. Bard and Thranduil sat themselves straighter as they sense business. “The lord Oropher ordered my own troops back into the north. I apologize for not coming here sooner. I was busy retrieving the duelists.” Legolas breathes in hard as his heart twisted with sudden anger. “He had no right! No right to do any of what he has done!”

“Still yourself, Legolas.” Thranduil said before he stood up from the bed. Bard's eyes followed his form and marveled at his recovery.

The Elvenking busied himself at untying the bandages on his left leg before donning his silver armor and fastening his two swords on his sides. He stops and looks at Bard, “It would be better if you do not follow.”

Bard raises his eyebrows, “If you mean to overrule your father then surely I must have a part in this, as will all that is left of the Night's Watch.”

The words hung heavy between them and Thranduil soften his eyes as he thought of how fortunate he was that this brave man in front of him was his lover. “Overrule him? Nay, he does as he wills. But so do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly hope this chapter turned out okay. Man, writing the Vala Namo (Mandos) was quite restricting, because I had to take care of his personality and spent a heck a lot of time editing this and that. He is portrayed as stern but I want him to also have a caring side for Thranduil, the little elfling who came to him by chance.
> 
> This chapter was not supposed to end here, but it was likely going to be way too long. So, the next chapter will continue directly from where this chapter has left off. It is approximately 4am for the Elves at the Wall now, poor them they can't sleep, not yet.
> 
> Anyway, since the true king has awaken, the messy stuff regarding the slaying and Oropher's various questionable actions will be addressed and handled by king Thranduil himself. Thank you for reading and I welcome any feedback :)


	11. Regarding the Conscience of Elves

**[Final Map of the lands in the North](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/114134718087/map-for-a-hobbit-and-game-of-thrones-fanfiction)**   **|**   **[Record of Feanor's War (Time Line)](http://linkingal.tumblr.com/post/112327651242/record-of-feanors-war)**

 

When Thranduil stepped out of the hut, the light glow of the dawning sun reflected off his silver armor. Haldir bowed respectfully but Thranduil was searching for his father in the busy crowd. The elves were still clearing the dead bodies and shoveling dirty snow away. It was a mess, and a bloody one at that. The tents were still torn and left on the ground, disregarded. He could feel the unrest of his people and their weariness for they had not slept nor rested.

Suddenly, movements stopped as the elves felt a strong presence had just risen amongst them. The presence pulled their thoughts and sight towards their king. Right then, they all dropped what they were doing and rushed to kneel on one knee, metal clinging and dead corpses thumping on the snow and all. Cries of “My king!”, “Thank Eru!” and “Lord Thranduil!” were heard.

The few persons who did not kneel was Thorin, who had came out of the feasting hall to see what was the noise about. Fael, who had just come back into the Wall with a troop of elven healers. His face held shock and surprise to see prince Legolas and the duelists he had supposedly brought back to the Keep. And, Oropher, who stood beaming at his son's status without remorse for indeed there was none of it in his dark heart.

Thorin had half a mind to step forward to speak with Thranduil but between the smiling face of Oropher and Thranduil's frown, he held himself.

When the elves returned from the borders of the Wall, for they had carried corpses away to be burned, saw the situation, they too knelt with relief.

Haldir and Tauriel stepped back from their king and knelt as well. Bard was left standing behind Thranduil. He was a little lost. Legolas put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gave a weak smile.

The Elvenking beheld the faces and the emotions of the elves. A small number of them looked guilty and a green glow seemed to emit from their ears. Thranduil then snapped his head up to look at Oropher intently and indeed – There was a green glow about his ears as well but his green was a darker kind of green, as though mixed with black. The glow swirled about their heads as if a halo of pestilence was upon them. He looked to Fael but there was no green there. In it's place was a gray halo. His eyes scanned for other colors but he found none and he briefly wondered if this was the gift of Mandos.

“All who have participated under my father's orders to slay the men, stand up!” And a large number did, including those who did not have the green halo about them. He could see Fael ordering the healers to take a knee before he himself did so. Thorin took a step back and leaned against the feasting hall as the thirty brothers stepped out to look at the commotion. He did not kill his own men but he surely would not kneel to any king other than Joffrey. Oropher stood still and looked at his son with amusement in his eyes.

Thranduil contemplated for awhile, “Those who raised a hand against our allies, step out!” And then his suspicion was confirmed. The elves with the green halo on them all stepped out with their heads bowed. There were fifty-six of them.

Thranduil was shocked that Fuinvor was one of them. Haldir gasped and Tauriel shook her head in obvious disbelief. Bard just looked away, feeling utterly betrayed. Out of everyone here, he didn't think that Thorin's elven ward was one of them. The thirty brothers were shocked beyond words and muttered amongst themselves in disbelief. Thorin's breath caught in his throat and his heart felt as if it was stabbed with a blunt knife.

Fuinvor alone of the guilty fell down on both knees, for he knew that he bore the greater part of the crime (or should), being the one who had the trust of the king, prince and the men.

“Why?!” Thranduil screamed, towering over Fuinvor. He cowered and the elves behind him took a few steps back as the anger of their king made itself known. “WHY?!” he shouted again. Blood rose to his cheeks and the shadow in him threatened to spill. “I SHOULD DEAL YOU A DEATH BLOW THIS MOMENT!”

When Fuinvor looked up to his king with wide eyes, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Thranduil crossed his right hand over his hips and unsheathed his sword in a shattering roar. Legolas tried to reach out but it was Bard who was nearer that saved the poor elf. Thranduil raised his sword arm over his head while Bard ducked under it and pulled the second sword from it's sheath and met the blow of the king in a locked parry.

A shivering cry was emitted when the pieces of metal met each other and locked themselves in the position. Bard did all he could to prevent the descent of the Elvenking's sword. “Thranduil!” he shouted and he saw his lover blink, as if a mist had been lifted from his mind, showing him reality.

In the background, Oropher's heart was beating wildly in his chest while Thorin was shocked at the terrible anger of the Elvenking but at the same time, both wondered how Bard managed to quell the anger of Thranduil in a heartbeat.

For the pair locked their eyes and Bard questioned, “You would slay your kin?” The swords were still high in the air.

In all honesty, Thranduil was quite dazed with drunken anger. The conversation with Namo and the quest weighed heavy upon him. There seemed a tug of war between his oath and the malice within him. All this finally exploded when the most trusted elf proved him wrong. He felt like a monster at this moment, unsure how a death punishment came to be but it had sat right with him in the moment of anger. He looked at Bard's bravery and saw forgiveness in those dark eyes that he did not feel himself capable. It was at this time that he decided to anchor himself to Bard for all his life. “N-No.. No!” The sword seemed to betray him so Thranduil dropped his for fear of what he might do.

Thranduil closed his eyes for a few moments and thought of his memories of Bard in the previous days. Those memories calmed him and settled him. He breathed out and walked past Bard towards Fuinvor while Bard picked up his sword and passed both to Legolas for safekeeping at this time.

“Stand.” He ordered. Fuinvor stood up in a flash, unwilling to anger the king any further. Then, Thranduil raised his voice to address the guilty ones. “You are, all of you, traitors and turncoats!” The elves were shocked. Those who were kneeling began to mutter and whisper among themselves. Oropher frowned. The ones standing – the slayers of friends – only looked more guilty as time went by.

Bard was holding his breath for he knew the purpose of those terms. Legolas smirked smugly and looked to Oropher's black face, challenging the elder.

Thranduil then took a few steps back and addressed everyone, including Fael.

“Who is king here?!” He asked in a bellowed voice. The elves had no response. If they said it was Thranduil, it would make them traitors indeed. If they said it was Oropher... well, that was not quite true now is it? “WHO IS KING HERE?!” He shouted again.

“You are, my lord.” Haldir supplied and everyone breathed out in relief.

Thranduil nodded a few times and turned back to his right. “Then as king I have the right to brand you traitors, worthy of a traitor's punishment.” Thranduil then spat on the ground to further show his contempt. He truly was unable to summon any ounce of forgiveness for these group of elves who killed their allies in their own homes. “Your heads will be made bear. The distinct glamour of the Eldar will be robbed from you and that will be the duration of your sentence.” Some gasps were heard. It would be a long fifty years for the males or more for the females for their hair to grow out completely! All who looked at them back home would know what they had done.

“Who shall be the king's justice?” Thranduil asked while his eyes searched for the victim that would deal out this judgment to fellow kin. His eyes fell on Oropher's discontented face. Thranduil knew it would be a great wrong to have his own father, who perpetrated the slaughter, deal out the punishment to others. However, Thranduil needed to make a show of it, to affirm in the heart of Elves and Men that he was, indeed, the only Elvenking in their midst.

“Father!” He addressed with eyes stern. Oropher was shocked that Thranduil would really dare to consider him. “Would you be the king's justice this day? Come forth with your bloody sword and do this virtuous deed!” It was not a question but a command. Thranduil was aware that the surviving men were watching, he was also aware that one particular tall man with a dark mane has his eyes intently fixed on Oropher. Thranduil hoped to the Valar and the gods of men that Oropher would oblige, so as to alleviate the animosity that men now harbored for the elves. Stories must have spread through the realms of men by now for no doubt, Thranduil suspected that some brothers might have left after hearing news of the slaughter.

Oropher faltered for a little as all eyes were trained on him, including the elves who had listened to his command. He was not one to falter, as you can most likely tell from all that has happened hither and thither. But he was slightly unsettled, knowing full well that he should – he must – answer the summon of the Elvenking, even if the Elvenking was in every way lower than he. Was it pride that wrestled against him? No, for _even_ he could see the loathing in the eyes of the elves who would soon be hairless due to his unrestrained command and by his own hand.

He stepped aside and walked towards the front, passing the elves, his eyes trained on Thranduil's clenched jaw. His sword was not with him for Haldir would not let it go just yet. “Your instrument of choice, **son**?” The last word was strong to remind all that was here that the Elvenking was his junior after all.

Thranduil took one of his swords from Legolas and handed it to Oropher. “We will wait until the deed is done, **Oropher**.” Thranduil was not the son of a father here. He was king. _The_ Elvenking.

 

-

 

Piles of golden, red, brown and black hair now laid strewn on the white snow. The sun had fully risen now but the hearts of man and elf were dispirited.

Thranduil then gave the command for the traitors to burn away their own hair while the others made haste to clear the bodies and rebuild the tents. “The feasting hall be cleared of food for the injured and sick to be healed in the warmth and comfort of the larger space.” He ordered decisively and proceed to scold, “There will be no warmth this day for I am much irritated. Ye shall experience the cold of the night and weigh it against the cold of thy hearts herein and choose which ye shall rather yield to!” With that, he took back his swords and pulled Oropher into the hut much to the elder's chagrin and shut out the apologies of the masses behind the door.

There was coherence now instead of the mess formerly. Fael hastened for his troop of healers to prepare the feasting hall with their supplies. Tauriel then gathered medical supplies that she could find in the various recovery huts of men, but not daring to enter the Elvenking's hut for now. Galion gathered the now bald elves and promptly ordered them to _'shield their shame with their hoods_ ' for every elven armor came with a leather hood that was dark and strong, as it was necessary in the harsh north. Galion held them in the clean area outside the Elvenking's hut, disallowing them to sit or help as he foresaw that the Elvenking had more in mind to deal with these. They stood at attention, feet wide and hands behind their back, with heads bowed and faces laced with warm tears. Fuinvor thought he might faint for bald heads felt the cold harsher and his guilt clawed at him from the inside. He desperately wanted to make amends and help out the others.

Haldir led the duelists to rebuild the tents. They started to clear the torn ones and shifted the supplies from fallen tents to standing ones. Bard followed Legolas to the back of the hut away from the crowd as the commander caught up with them.

Commander Amastel reported to Prince Legolas with casualty numbers and remaining strength at the Wall, “Of the two hundred and fifty that came with you, my Prince, I am afraid that all of them perished.” Legolas was focusing his eyes on Thorin who had led his thirty brothers back into the feasting hall but he grunted in surprise when Amastel reported the numbers. The commander put a hand on his heart and inclined his head slightly in condolence before he continued, “Of the nine hundred that came with lord Oropher, a hundred of them are duelists and they survived.” Legolas listened calmly with slight relief in his heart, “Five hundred were warriors and three hundred were archers. Hundred from each rank were slain.” It was then that Legolas dropped his head and tears escaped his blue eyes. He did not sob nor make a sound. The tears just fell silently. Amastel thinned his lips. He had to continue for he was not done yet. “Of the Elvenking's troops, two hundred warriors slain and thirty five archers fallen.”

This was merely routine for Amastel to report directly the numbers face to face, rather than writing them on reports, as if the elves were mere logistic to be handled and dispatched when necessary. The recording would come later but right now, there was a moment of silence. The two veterans hugged each other tightly. Legolas croaked with a sad voice, “We have lost much yet victory escapes us.” He pulled away and wiped his tears, “What of the men and the enemy? Have you taken note of those?” Legolas admired and held a little envy for Amastel's precision in numbers and ability to remember the details in the midst of a war. Thranduil had specifically chosen Amastel for the commander's post as he knew that the latter had the uncanny ability to remain calm and analytical even when a storm was about him. A tsunami could come right this moment and Amastel would be thinking of the best way to angle his limbs so that he could float on the water.

Amastel nodded, “A thousand Starks lie dead or burned but eight hundred managed to escape south.” Legolas blinked, unable to process the insane number that were now probably making war in other cities. “We have accounted two hundred Targaryens slain as well, but of how many made it south, I am not sure. I would say a good three hundred as we found and burnt five of their banners.”

“That is more than a thousand enemies south of the Wall.” It was astonishing and frightening. A weight settled upon Legolas' heart for he felt that he had failed the world. He feared for the king and lords of men. How were they holding up? “Did you find the Stark son?”

Amastel shook his head, “He escapes us but I did not see him pass the Wall. He may still be hiding somewhere. Or perished in the cold.” This was a rare occasion where information escaped Amastel but he did not brood on it. One Stark was not of import after all. “I found out that half the brothers went south of the Wall before you came. Of those that remained, a hundred and eighty were slain by the enemy while forty.... Forty were slain by the elves. Thirty only remain.”

Bard listened closely and he found his breathing a little heavier. Amastel bowed respectfully and went away, presumably to write his official report for the Elvenking.

“The Lord Commander would surely lead what men we have south to aid King Joffrey in the imminent war.” Bard stated.

Legolas assumed that this King Joffrey was the king of men _,_ “But only thirty remain. They would be of little help. They should stay at the Wall to preserve their lives.” He advised what he thought was only right. He did not want to hear more of death.

Bard shook his head, “Thorin will fight to the death. He is honorable and we have all sworn oaths of duty to the King himself.”

“You would leave my father?” Legolas asked plainly.

“I... I do not know. I need-” Bard sighed and he spun around, looking everywhere for answers. He looked up to the day sky in defeat, “I do not know, Legolas. But I know I need to fulfill my oaths.”

Legolas panicked, “You cannot leave my father in this desperate hour of his need! How could you?!” He grabbed Bard's collar in anger.

“Peace! Peace!” Bard loosened Legolas' grip and the Elvenprince watched him with fierce eyes, expecting an answer. Bard could see now who Legolas got his temper from. “I know I cannot but I need to do something. Enemies of the throne have crossed the Wall! Something needs to be done!”

“What would you do?! You will only die if you go with so little! Surely this King Joffrey has league of armies at his disposal to deal with the war.”

Bard shook his head. “You do not understand. There are more traitorous Targaryens in the east. Word would have traveled of the Stark's escape and dragons will once again come into Westeros! Thirty cannot do much but would the Elves not fight for the realm as they did of yore?” Bard remembered the stories of the dragonslayer and the magic of the Noldor that had saved the world once, three thousand years ago.

Legolas did not forget as well and he knew that if the realm was to survive, the aid of the Elves would prove immeasurable. If the strength of men were to fail, the Targaryens would surely encroach on the north and seek their vengeance against the Elves.

The decision to lead the Elves south became apparent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was quite a beast to write! *wiggles finger* Fuinvor you naughty little boy! *fans self* Oropher VS Thranduil is intense!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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